


A Sacrifice For All

by MyronMuse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A long long fic sorry not sorry, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Cullen Rutherford, Awkward Flirting, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Canon-Typical Violence, Cullen Has Issues, Dorian is a Good Friend, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Sexual Tension, Slavery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, This is probably gonna be a long ass fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyronMuse/pseuds/MyronMuse
Summary: A former Dalish slave travels to the Conclave of Divine Justinia with his Master... and leaves not only a free man... but a lauded one?(Summary a work in progress, I mostly suck at them.Thank you so much for any kudos and comments! I am a first time fic author without anyone editing or betaing for me, so feedback is welcome!See Ch 8 for the first piece of Ilensul art!)





	1. Wait... what happened?

**Author's Note:**

> I am a first time fic author, no beta, will be endeavoring to put out at least 1 chapter a week. We'll see how this goes!

“He can't be the one. Impossible.” The soft voice outside the cell tried to be discreet at least, but to elven ears, the words were as clear as day. _Orlesian_ , Ilensul's muddled mind told him. _But who? I don't remember any Orlesian women... except Chantry mothers. And she doesn't_ _ **sound**_ _like a Mother._

 

Quickly enough, another voice came from the same direction, not nearly as soft and calm as the other one, “Who else then, Leliana? He stepped out of a rift, the only known survivor of the blast. Who else could have done it?” This voice at least tried to brook no argument. The words were short and clipped, but the accent was at least familiar. Nevarran then. But what were a Nevarran woman and an Orlesian woman doing with him? What had happened?

 

Ilensul winced as he tried to get up, unable to restrain the soft groan that escaped his lips as he forced himself to sit. A cot then, that's where he was. A simple wooden thing, a stretch of canvas for support, with a thin straw pallet on top to keep him from getting sores while he laid there. The scratchy blanket fell away from his body, causing his dark eyes to glance down, lips automatically tugging into a frown at the shoddy workmanship. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind already to turn his thoughts elsewhere. Trust Ilensul to notice poor weaving and tailoring before the rest of his condition. Even so, while the simple rough-spun tunic and trousers he wore did little to add to his comfort, they were to be expected. Slaves wore whatever their masters willed – from golden silks, to cheap homespun, to nothing at all.

 

He couldn't recall coming down to this cell, not remembering when that had happened. He remembered following his Master through... where had they been? Not in Tevinter, he knew that to judge by the roughly carved bricks of stone that surrounded him. Were they in Orlais? Nevarra? Somewhere else? Ilensul's temples throbbed as he struggled to think. To remember. But everything seemed so distant and hazy. And each time his mind reached for a memory, it seemed to slip through his fingers.

 

Had... Master Paulus sold him then? Had Ilensul displeased him? The elf couldn't recall any anger from his master in recent weeks. The man had been excited about going... somewhere. Here, Ilensul supposed. Where ever 'here' was. Ilensul didn't remember any displeasure. They'd traveled well together, and Master Paulus had even praised Ilensul's acting skills when he'd presented himself as a normal, paid secretary.

 

Master Paulus hadn't been ill either, nothing had indicated a necessity to sell Ilensul. The man wasn't quite elderly yet, but he'd promised to keep Ilensul until he passed, and had vowed that he would find a suitable master to will the elf to. Someone that would take care of him, and when his days of usefulness ended, would give him a swift, and merciful finish. It was unlike Master Paulus to break promises, whether they be good or ill for his slave.

 

But Master Paulus wasn't nearby, Ilensul could tell immediately. The scholar's magical essence had a particular 'flavor' to the elf, reminding him of citrus and musky jasmine. Blind and deaf, Ilensul could tell if his Master was near. But Ilensul smelled nothing. No magic at all. No lyrium, as would be common among mages, or enchantment workers, those who he spent the most time with in his life. Had Master Paulus sold him to _Soporati_ ? Did Southern _Soporati_ even know what to do with a magically talented slave?

 

Outside the cell that still confined the elf, the conversation continued, the Orlesian coming to his defense it seemed, “He's just a boy Cassandra. You're telling me a youth could have orchestrated that kind of magic? He's a mage yes, but even the most powerful mages need years of training--”

 

“Are you saying that youths can't be used? We've both seen boys, mere children, used by underground groups to do what they wish. I doubt he is the mastermind of any of this. But he was involved, someway, somehow. And I intend to find out how.” The sheer will and determination in that Nevarran voice made a small tremor run through Ilensul's slender body, making him shiver in his shoddy clothes. And then even harder as he heard the clanging of metal on metal, and then the creaking of his cell door as it opened.

 

The tall brunette he saw standing there shocked him the most perhaps. Adding her severe expression in with her harsh tone, and steely gaze, it took all of the elf's willpower to force a shred of grace into his movements as he scrambled down from the cot, only now aware of the shackles he wore that prevented a more becoming display. The chains clattered as he rushed to get onto his knees, curling into himself as he tucked his arms under, and touched his forehead to the ground. It wasn't _quite_ the expected position, but his present restraints made true prostrating impossible. He didn't dare a word, not yet. Speaking out of turn got him a reprimand from even a more lenient master like Paulus. With this woman's hard glare, he was sure he would be in for something far harsher for such an offense.

 

The dark haired woman, Cassandra as the Orlesian had called her, was perhaps just as startled as the elf, her frown deepening for a moment before she lifted her chin and collected herself. She had a job to do after all.

 

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now,” The Seeker kept her voice as hard as she could muster, reaching down with her gloved hand to grab a rough hold of one slender, elven arm and jerked Ilensul upright, and slowly began to circle him, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead... except you.”

 

Ilensul's eyes widened to saucers, breath catching in his throat. Conclave? The Conclave! That's where he and Master Paulus had gone! But... that meant... “Dead?” The elf finally parroted, his eyebrows coming together and pushing up on his forehead, wrinkling the vines of his vallaslin a bit with the expression. Full lips tugged down in a somewhat mournful frown. Master Paulus' death weighed heavily on Ilensul's slender shoulders, making his posture droop slightly.

 

The elf was no bodyguard; he was distinctly small and slender, undoubtedly several inches shorter than the women in the cell with him. His body was sleek and lithe, lacking the large, hard muscles necessary for wielding most weapons. Even so, Ilensul had known that if it had come down to it, he was to put his little body in front of any threat to his master unless told expressly otherwise.

 

He was jerked from his rapid train of thought by the dark-haired woman again, as she reached down for his wrist, jerking his hand up, “Explain... this....” her voice dipped heavily with her accent as she hissed, holding his hand high for another moment before shoving it away from herself, the static crackling of magic humming through the air as hot pain shot down Ilensul's arm.

 

Shivering once more, he shook his head, “I... can't. I don't know what that is... or how it got there...” the 'boy's' voice was a surprisingly mature tenor, drawing the attention of the red-haired Orlesian woman who remained several steps behind her Nevarran companion. Ilensul's expression crumbled a little more as he finally dared to look down. There, in the center of his palm was a slash, as if cut by a knife straight across from one side to the other. But instead of blood or an open wound, he saw brilliant green light flickering there, crackling and echoing in the cell.

 

Cassandra however, was not convinced. Lunging forward again, she snatched his shoulder, squeezing the round joint to the point of pain, “You're lying!” Her control slipping, the woman gave Ilensul a shake by his shoulder, hard enough to make his teeth chatter together, and the elf instinctively flinched back, his long ears drooping down submissively.

 

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry Mistress, I'm sorry! I won't-- I can't-- I'm sorry!” Practically squeaking in fright, he almost didn't realize that Cassandra had let him go, his head bowing before he could see the look of shock on her face. The Seeker's display, and the elf's startled reaction was enough to bring the Orlesian – Leliana – forward, her hand going to Cassandra's shoulder.

 

“We need him Cassandra!” she admonished with her own lilting voice, and using her hand to guide the other woman back, she approached the elf slowly, her steps softer. Her knees bent, and Leliana squatted, hunkering down to be closer to eye level with the restrained elf. “Do you remember what happened?” she asked, carefully keeping her voice as soft and comforting as she could manage, “How this began?” Blue eyes sought his brown, but the elf kept his gaze down, not daring now to look up.

 

“I remember... that Master and I were going to that... that Conclave. To speak to... to someone? See after something? I don't remember.” He really did try. After sixteen years of servitude, Ilensul was a good slave, and he wanted to obey. Obedience meant that one wasn't hurt. One wasn't denied food or rest. Without chance of escape, it was the best that he could hope for. And so he thought hard, trying to ignore the pounding at his temples, and the sound of his blood rushing in his long ears, “And then... I remember running. And things... men, but... not men. Chasing me.” The elf swallowed thickly, his adam's apple bobbing with the motion, enough movement to catch Leliana's eye. “Then... a woman?” His brows furrowed at the recollection.

 

“A woman?” Leliana gently pressed, reaching out to pat Ilensul's shoulder delicately, hoping to put him at ease.

 

“She... reached out to me. But then...” the elf cut off and shook his head, the tangled mess of his long, braided hair slapping lightly against his back.

 

“Go to the Forward Camp Leliana. I will take him to the rift.” Cassandra stepped forward, interrupting the quiet moment. The redhead frowned a little but nodded with a sigh, and stood. Though she paused, hesitating as she glanced down at the still kneeling elf, she finally stepped away, and walked out of the cell.

 

“I... I don't understand Mistress,” Ilensul took a chance, speaking out of turn. But the confusion was too thick, his thoughts too jumbled now.

 

The brunette sighed, frustration draining a bit as she knelt down in front of the elf, a key in her hand to remove the shackles that weighed him down so. She did not yet however, allow him to be completely unrestrained. Tying a rope around his wrists, she finally helped him to his feet... showing more surprise when she realized just how small this elf was. While the lady was tall for a woman, most elf males were close to her height by the time they reached adolescence. But Cassandra had at least six inches on her prisoner.

 

“It-- it will be easier to show you,” she finally said, her voice straining a bit. Already things were going strangely for the typically straightforward Seeker. The woman was normally very self-assured. But she hadn't anticipated this. That the elf would be a slave, rather than just a typical lackey. This meant that he was likely not responsible. Even if he had been ordered to do something that caused all of this... he was forced to. It wouldn't have been as if he'd been paid, like some henchman would. It certainly complicated things. “Can you walk?” She finally asked, gazing down at the elf cautiously.

 

Ilensul nodded slowly, taking a shaky, but full step forward. The motion allowed some of Cassandra's tension to ease from her shoulders, and with awkward, but sincere care, she lead Ilensul through the cell door. “You need not call me 'Mistress',” she finally said as they went through a dark corridor, only dimly lit by torches, “I am not your mistress. I am Seeker Cassandra Pentagahst. My... associate is Sister Leliana. What can we call you?”

 

The elf could tell by the woman's rhythm that she was trying her very best not to frighten him again, but her words did little to ease his fears. “I am... I am Ilensul. But... if you are not my mistress, who is to have me?”

 

The thought of freedom didn't cross Ilensul's mind. He'd only had one escape attempt, in his earliest days as a slave. The punishment had been a terrifying and agonizing experience, and one that had never been forgotten. His first master, Master Caius, had made it very clear that even outside of the Imperium, no one cared about slaves. That if he tried to run, and Caius put out word of an escaped slave, there was no one in southern Thedas that would protect him. He'd lived in the south when he'd been captured in the first place after all.

 

“That... remains to be seen.” The answer the woman gave him did little reassure him, particularly with the strange, stiff tone she used. He knew that the southern nations didn't technically practice slavery, but he was someone's property. Would they be returning him to Master Paulus' estate, so that his fate was handled by his late master's will? Would they sell him to someone else?

 

The heavy oak doors of the building he was in finally opened, light pouring over the elf, the brightness causing him to wince and use his bound hands to cover his eyes for a moment. Almost as soon as he lowered them and looked up however, Ilensul sorely wished he hadn't. The vortex in the sky, terrifying and gaping, swirling green and crackling with magic was almost heart-stopping. “What is that?” The question almost came out as a whimper, the little elf instinctively shying away.

 

“We call it the Breach. It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows with each passing hour,” Cassandra paused to glance back at him over her shoulder, “It's not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

 

“An explosion can do that?” Ilensul's voice was at the same time both timid and inquisitive. The scholar in him was desperate to know more... while his fear tried to make him turn on his heel and run back into the building, back to his cell.

 

“ _This_ one did. Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” As in on cue, the Breach thundered and pulsed with magic, the mark on Ilensul's hand flaring up brightly, and sending pain through the elf's arm so strongly, Ilensul was sure that he was on fire. With a loud groan, he clumsily fell to his knees, reflexively clutching his bound hand to his belly. “Each time the Breach expands,” Cassandra went on, “Your mark spreads. And it IS killing you. It may be the key to stopping this. But there isn't much time.” She paused, and went down on one knee before him, her eyes focused on him expectantly.

 

“I...” Ilensul swallowed heavily again, for a moment without breath. He didn't understand what had happened at the Conclave. What was happening NOW. But... but he couldn't just sit here. She said he could help. Or they thought he could help. “I understand. I will... try.”

 

He could see the relief that small statement gave the woman. She let out a held breath and nodded, standing to whisper something to to a nearby guard before coming back to him and helping him up. “I've sent a guard ahead to clear the way. I... I don't know if you or your master were responsible for what happened at the Conclave but I cannot allow the townspeople to run over you.” Using her boot knife to cut through the rope that had bound his wrists, she sighed and turned. With a hand on his elbow, she began to guide him through what was now obvious to him to be a small village, and continuing her explanations, “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was the chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now they are dead.”

 

“Peace between...” Ilensul trailed off, considering this. He remembered how things were before. How careful he had had to be in human towns and cities, to not raise the templars suspicions. So long as he didn't cast magic, most of the time they had let him be; he was obviously Dalish, with his style of clothes and vallaslin. But he knew, vaguely, of the Circles of mages, and their templar guards (or perhaps the term 'jailers' was more accurate, depending on who one asked). “What happened? Was there a battle?”

 

“Many battles. A war,” Cassandra raised one sculpted eyebrow at the little elf beside her, “You didn't know what was happening?”

 

“We... don't get a lot of news about southern mages in Tevinter,” Ilensul responded as they continued to walk, “The templars in Tevinter are not like the templars here. They do not have the same abilities. They are mostly normal soldiers, though well trained.”

 

The woman scowled softly, shaking her head in disapproval, “The war here... the mages rebelled from their Circles and pulled away from the Chantry. And then the templars have practically done the same thing, except with a target in mind. Most Holy sought to find a way for peace.” A sigh, soft and sad, escaped her, attracting the soft, chocolate brown gaze of the small elf next to her, those expressive things full of sympathy that was wholly unexpected by the Seeker.

 

He looked away for a moment as they began to walk at a steadier pace again, chewing on his lip in silence as they crossed a small bridge, wooden gates at its end opening for them. Only when they started on a small, rocky hill did he dare to speak again, “Do you think it would have been successful?”

 

Cassandra merely shrugged, her near-permanent frown softening slightly, “I cannot say. All I know is that all hope of peace died with Justinia.”

 

The pair continued up the hill in relative quiet for several minutes, only interrupted here and there with duos and trios of soldiers running back towards the village. “How did I survive the blast?” Ilensul finally ventured, the growing silence between them unnerving him more than a little. Silence in his world could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on who one's master was. He could only hope that here it was good. He was not yet confident though.

 

“They said you... stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was,” the woman explained, “Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you'll see soon enough.”

 

Little time was given for the poor elf to allow that bit of frightening information to register. As they came upon another small bridge, the Breach above them pulsed again, and hurled a green, molten stone straight for them, blasting into the small stone structure and sending both elf and human tumbling to the frozen water beneath them.


	2. Bianca's Excited!

For the second time in less than an hour, Ilensul found himself waking in an unfamiliar place. Thankfully this time, he'd only lost consciousness for a few moments, rather than... well however long it had been that he'd slept in that cell. Groaning, his slender arms trembled as he began to pick himself up, only just registering Cassandra's call to him.

 

“Stay behind me!” It was nearly a battle-cry, the way she yelled and leaped forward, her sword already drawn, shield shining brilliantly in front of her. She went after the shade that threatened them with a zeal that Ilensul had never witnessed before; he had memories of his clan, his family, fighting a few shemlens, bandits, highwaymen and the like. But none of his clan had ever shown the amount of talent and passion in the act of fighting that Cassandra did. She was an artwork of skill and power, graceful in her movements despite the decided lack of it when out of combat.

 

For a few moments, Ilensul could do nothing else but stare, somewhat slack-jawed in his awe. She was thoroughly distracting. It was luck then perhaps, that had the elf's eyes beginning to wander at the right moment. That he caught the sight of green, brackish shadow coalescing on the ground in front of him, boiling and thick, sickly and slimy. Another shade formed within the bubbling mass, growing larger and larger as the startled elf began to stumble backwards.

 

Misfortune from years before made Ilensul familiar enough with the creature that gasped and wheezed at him now, its spindly arms raising towards him. With a frightened cry, he jumped back, his feet slipping as they landed in the middle of a pile of broken crates. Grunting painfully with the impact of the wood and thick ice on his poor backside, Ilensul flailed his arms, hands grasping desperately for something, anything that he could use to beat back the advancing demon.

 

Luck it seemed was graced on elf once again, a whisper of a smile flickering across his pretty face as his fingers wrapped themselves around the reassuring firmness of a staff. A plain weapon, plain yew without baubles or carvings, with a simple iron and quartz ornament on its tip for a focus. It lacked the finesse of the staff he'd worn in Master Paulus' care. But it would do.

 

Struggling to his feet, Ilensul planted each loose boot as firmly as he could on the icy surface he stood on, swinging the tall stave around him front of him. Only the scarce touch of his mind was needed to call his mana up, a bit shaky for a moment, but soon flooding back to him, curling comfortingly through his limbs. Shimmering blue barriers surrounded both Ilensul and Cassandra immediately after, the warmth of the elf's magic enveloping them as he cast on pure instinct. With the chaos and confusion around him, the uncertainty of his position, his predicament, the feeling of spellcasting was welcome. A balm to his emotional wounds. His magic was something that he knew and trusted.

 

The shade attacking the elf screeched loudly as its black claws scraped, but failed to penetrate the barrier, drawing Ilensul's attention back to the present. Shivering, gagging slightly in his revulsion, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried to focus. Just like Keeper taught him. Focus, channel, direct, release. Force wove through him, shoving the shade back several feet once, then twice, the demon shrieking louder and swinging its arms wildly.

 

He raised one small hand to shoulder level, outstretched before him, cupping his fingers together as he brought his mana came forward, twining invisibly around the staff in his hand, through the simple focus at its peak, and then back into the elf's body again, focus and energized. It swirled through each slender digit, flames sparking at his fingertips, spinning together in his palm. The sparks licked at his skin as the fire danced over it, sliding across until it began to form into a ball.

 

As the flames grew bigger, sending waves of heat billowing around the elf, tossing his dark hair about his head, he gritted his teeth, steeling himself in the best attempt he could to stand firm against the terror that tore through him.

 

The shade had not been distracted from its pursuit of Ilensul however. Despite being shoved away, it glided across the ice, careening towards the elf again until it smashed its body against Ilensul's protection. While flames gathered and grew in his hand, the demon screamed and railed against the shimmering barrier, its anger and violence only growing as the seconds ticked by without sating the creature's bloodlust.

 

At last, Ilensul gathered the courage and power to release, eyes narrowing as the fireball lifted from his hand and hot outwards, smashing directly into the shadowy face of the shade. A piercing shriek assaulted his long ears as the demon shrunk away, clawed hands coming to the shadowy void of its face, body writhing.

 

The perfect opportunity for Cassandra it seemed. As the demon had busied itself with Ilensul, the Seeker had dispatched her own opponent and hastened to assist her charge. Within a few moments of the impact of the fireball, Cassandra's sword swung forward, slicing through the shade's body, causing it to collapse with a wail into a bubbling heap at their feet.

 

Alert and primed from battle, that shining sword turned then to the elf, “Drop your weapon! Now!” The demand was harsh and loud, so similar to voice she'd used within the cell that Ilensul had not a thought but to obey. Without hesitation, his fingers released, and the staff he'd been holding clattered to the ground. Holding his hands up in front of him, his head bowed automatically.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--” the words virtually spilled from his mouth as he tried to make this right, now long established habit to apologize and grovel after using magic without permission, “I shouldn't have, I know, I'm sorry Mistr – Lady Cassandra,” there was at least the sense to not call her 'Mistress', though it had been on the tip of his tongue.

 

Pressing his lips together tightly, taking the Seeker's silence as continued disapproval, Ilensul quieted and simply waited for the inevitable aftermath of his self-perceived defiance.

 

Another shock to the poor elf's sensibilities then when all he received was a sigh, and a scoff, “No child. I was... wrong,” it was clear such a statement was one that did not come easily to the woman, “You don't need a staff, but you should have one. I cannot protect you. And we cannot hope to get to our destination without more fighting. Come now. Who knows what else we will face?” A small wave of the Lady's leather gloved hand finally convinced the elf to look up.

 

Timid and cautious, his eyes flicked between her face and the staff on the ground several times, judging to see if she was perhaps sincere. Many times in the past sixteen years, he'd been given the opportunity to arm or defend himself... only to have the notion beaten out of him the moment he made to do so. The offer was a trick, a test. He'd long since learned to never rise to that bait.

 

But Cassandra's eyes were clear and steely. He began to realize that this was perhaps a woman that lies were impossible for. Or nearly, anyway. But as of yet, Ilensul wasn't entirely certain if that gave him comfort or not. He was hesitant then, when he squatted down to pick the staff up once more, his brown eyes still focused intently on the woman before him. Waiting for her to lash out at him as his fingers curled around the wooden shaft. Another long moment passed, before Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Come on then child. Let's go.” She finally encouraged, giving a jerk of her head in the direction she wanted him to follow before turning that way herself.

 

Standing again, gingerly holding the staff, and took a tentative step. Then another. And finally more as he followed. After several beats of silence, he spoke up again, “Why do you call me child, Lady Cassandra? You surely cannot be much older than I.” With no enemies in front of them, and a somewhat understandable need to fill the dangerous silence, Ilensul made an effort to make conversation.

 

One of Cassandra's sculpted eyebrows rose as she ticked her head to look to him, “I'm flattered by the comparison, but I am no youth. I'm probably old enough to be your mother.” The corner of her mouth twitched – not quite a smile perhaps, but probably the closest thing the lady had to one.

 

Then it was Ilensul's turn to raise a brow, “Youth?” He questioned and shook his head, “Lady Cassandra, I am thirty-five years old. Did you really think – it's the height isn't it?” The elf scowled down at his body. At five feet and three inches, he was short even by elven standards. Petite in both frame and figure, he was sleek and lithe, almost feminine in appearance if not for the flatness of his chest and the lightly defined muscles of his abdomen – presently hidden by his rough-spun tunic.

 

Both of Cassandra's eyebrows rose this time, her surprise apparent, “Thirty – truly?” Her head shook slowly, “Elves.” With a sigh she continued onward for a few more moments. “The height certainly plays a part in it,” she continued, “But also your face. You lack the... distinction that most people have by your age. And you're... _pretty_.”

 

That at least was quite true, despite the woman's discomfort in admitting it. Too youthful and refined in features to be considered handsome, he was very pretty... though still slightly masculine with the cut of his jaw. For those who enjoyed such traits in a man, Ilensul was a remarkable specimen.

 

Her revelation however did not make the elf self-conscious or angry, as it might to a man less secure in his masculinity. Instead he smiled softly, a gentle thing curling full lips, and turned his rich brown eyes to the somewhat embarrassed Seeker. It was easier to get over his own bashfulness about the compliment in light of her own for giving it. “Thirty-five,” he corrected gently, “But I thank you. This isn't the first time that some has thought that I was significantly younger than I am but... it's the first time in a while that a stranger has called me pretty.” A jest perhaps, but a kind one at least.

 

Cassandra snorted lightly and shook her head, turning to face forward. “We should hurry. We need to get you to a rift, to test out that mark. Stay close.” The elf's lips twitched, but he said nothing; as if he was going to wander so far in a dangerous land that he didn't know with so many demons running around.

 

– ** – **

 

Nearly an hour, and two more tangles with shades and wraiths, and they were once more climbing. Snow covered stone steps this time, only slightly easier than the rocky paths they'd been taking. The elf was beginning to tire, unused to so much physical and magical activity for such lengths of time, but they could not stop. “We are getting close to the rift! You can hear the fighting!” Cassandra called to him, raising her voice to be heard above the wind, and the sounds of a skirmish that laid somewhere ahead out of their sight.

 

“Who's fighting?” Ilensul asked as he continued to climb, his voice only slightly breathless. As they'd traveled, he was becoming increasingly comfortable with the woman beside him. He hadn't known her long, but despite her abrasiveness, and her harshness, there was a distinct _goodness_ about her that was easy for Ilensul to see. After being in the company of so many who were the exact opposite, for so many years, the differences were palpable.

 

“You'll see soon. We must help them! Let us hurry!” With renewed energy, Cassandra broke into a run, taking the remaining steps of that impossibly long staircase two at a time, while the little elf struggled to keep up. His dark eyes focused on the shining steel of the Seeker's shield on her back, narrowing his gaze, concentrating his breathing as he lengthened his stride as much as he could without losing his balance.

 

So focused was he that Ilensul didn't even notice when he teetered over a small ledge, yelping loudly as he stumbled and fell several feet, arms pinwheeling comically as he sought to land on his feet. Cassandra of course had already moved ahead, joining a pair of soldiers in now familiar uniforms, as well as an elven mage, and a dwarf with a rather peculiar crossbow, nearly as big as himself, as they battled against several shades standing before a swirling green blob, a miniature version of that Breach in the sky.

 

“Ilensul! Hurry!” It was the Lady Seeker's voice that cut through the din to him, snapping his attention away from the rift to the situation before him. Staff in one hand, he quickly waved the other, covering all six of them now with a strong barrier.

 

Thankfully this time, Ilensul was not forced to summon magic any more offensive than a simple gravity spell that kept the shades halted in place, making them easier for the soldiers, Cassandra, and the other presently unnamed fighters to pick them off. He was able to concentrate on keep them protected with his barrier, and healing the minor wounds they'd sustained prior to he and the Seeker's arrival.

 

The last shade fell in a melting puddle, but the rift remained. Ilensul stared at it for a long moment, distracted enough that he hadn't even heard the approach of the other elf.

 

“Quickly! Before more come through!” The bald elf shouted, reaching for Ilensul's wrist to yank him forward, closer to the swirling green and thrusting Ilensul's marked hand up and forward. Burning pain ripped through his arm, causing him to cry out as a stream of green magic shot out from the mark, connecting to it for several long seconds before the thing snapped shut like a door.

 

Ilensul snatched his hand away, fighting to keep his balance, and his composure as he looked to the taller elf, “What... what did you do?” Internally, he cursed how confused and small he sounded, even if it was understandable. His heart was pounding and his breath was labored.

 

“ _I_ did nothing,” the other elf gave a small, bland smile, “The credit is yours.”

 

“ _I_ did that?”

 

“Whatever magic opened the Breach also placed that mark upon your hand,” he explained to the still rather stunned Ilensul, “I theorized that the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake. And it seems I was correct.”

 

Cassandra approached slowly as she sheathed her sword, “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” she ventured, her eyes on the tall elf.

 

“Possibly...” he seemed reluctant to confirm such a notion, but perhaps couldn't be blamed for that. Who wanted to give a guarantee that failed? He turned back to Ilensul, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” A new statement to bring Ilensul to a new state of alarm.

 

“Good to know!” The rich voice of the dwarf in their company interrupted the trio, and Ilensul turned slightly to be able to face him. “And here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever!” The dwarf grinned as he steeped closer to the group, and continued to introduce himself, hand over his chest – bared despite the cold in an open tunic, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally... unwelcome tag-along,” he stated with a flourish, and a wink to the Lady Seeker, who only scowled in response.

 

“Ilensul Lavellan,” the youthful mage replied politely, inclining his head in greeting. He'd been away from his clan now nearly half his life, but even so, it was the only surname which he could give; despite being such an integral part of his master's life, he would never bear the Pellidus name. He was a slave, not family. “That's a... nice crossbow you have there.”

 

Varric almost visibly preened at the compliment, confirming that that was the direction for Ilensul to go with him, “Ah, isn't she?” The dwarf grinned and looked over his shoulder at the weapon, “Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

 

Ilensul pressed his lips together to restrain a giggle, “You named your crossbow Bianca?” Even with his considerable willpower, he couldn't keep the smile from his voice completely.

 

But the dwarf only beamed and nodded enthusiastically, “Of course!”

 

“I am Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the other elf gave a nod of his bald head as Ilensul turned back to him, “I am glad to see you still live.”

 

“He means – I kept that thing from killing you while you slept,” Varric added.

 

Ilensul blinked rapidly, casting a small glance down at his hand before his brown eyes turned up to meet the stormy blues of Solas, “Then I owe you my thanks.” His sincerity was clear, he hoped.

 

“Thank me after we seal the Breach,” Solas replied as he canted his head to look at the Seeker, “Cassandra you should know, this magic is unlike any I've seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it hard to imagine _any_ mage having such power.”

 

The Seeker only nodded, “Understood. We should go to the Forward Camp quickly.”

 

“Great idea Seeker!” Varric piped up, ready it seemed to follow along, but Cassandra pulled up sharply and shook her head.

 

With a scoff she sighed, “Absolutely not! Your help is appreciated Varric but --”

 

“Have you been to the valley Seeker?” the dwarf interrupted with a shake of his head, hands on his hips, “Your soldiers aren't in control anymore... you _need_ me.” The dwarf argued, but grinned as Cassandra simply gave a grunt of disgust and turned away without further comment.

 

Solas raised his eyebrows and shook his head, but pursed his lips in amusement and went to follow, leaving Ilensul to stare after them.

 

“Well,” Varric smiled up to Ilensul, reaching around to pat the elf on the back and encourage him to join the others, “Bianca's excited!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time - Haven! Thanks for reading!


	3. Herald of what now?

Once more, Ilensul drifted to consciousness, his slender body shuddering as he slowly woke. Nestled in the softness of a feather-filled bed, and layered in thick woolen blankets, he thought for sure that it had all been a dream. Surely it was nearing dawn, and he would be getting up to cook Master Paulus' breakfast, as he had near every morning for the past seven years.

 

It had to have been a dream. Waking up in that cell, the Breach, rifts. Meeting a charismatic dwarf, an elven apostate. The reassurances of both of them that he was no longer a slave. That he was free, and working to save the world by trying to use this foreign, new magic in his hand that no one else had ever seen before. That in that he was unique, and worthy.

 

Of course he'd dreamed up Chancellor Roderick, a dour priest who blamed everything on Ilensul alone. He was the embodiment of everything his Masters had told him of southern Men: self-righteous, arrogant, cruel, and a religious zealot.

 

Marching with his little group of friends towards the ruined temple. He'd never had friends. Not in over fifteen years. And then that rift, and the soldiers fighting there. When a terror demon had hurled him away, sending his little body flying back. The warrior with his great sword and shield, stepping between Ilensul and the demon, protecting him. He'd been the epitome of a knight in shining armor, blonde hair mussed and tousled from the fighting and the wind, handsome face filled with concern once the fighting was done, reaching out to help Ilensul to his feet.

 

 **That** had to be part of a dream. Near every dream Ilensul had in more than a decade had involved someone like that knight. All he was missing was a shining steed. A detail easily forgotten as the knight's hazel-gold eyes had rested on him, when he'd wished Ilensul luck and his god's blessing.

 

And to round it out – a demon. A terrible, hulking pride demon making the earth shudder as it landed on its feet. Demons also featured prominently in Ilensul's dreams. To tempt him with his desires, with power, with freedom. The little elf had always managed to deny them, especially as he grew older.

 

But this demon... this demon hadn't tried to negotiate. It had.. attacked. Wait... demons never attacked him in the Fade unless he'd already denied them. They hadn't been in the Fade. It had been real. _It had been REAL._

 

Jolting upright in bed, his dark eyes flew open as he heard a soft, frightened cry, and the sound of a box hitting the floor.

 

“I-I-I... I didn't know you were awake! I swear!” The stuttering voice belonged to a willowy elven girl with short auburn hair, her young face tight and scared. She shrunk back, away from Ilensul in an all too familiar shyness.

 

“It's alright,” Ilensul tried his most comforting voice... though he realized disuse had left him somewhat hoarse. He needed to find out what was going on, “Just tell me--” His quest for information was suddenly interrupted however, as the girl suddenly dropped to her knees, prostrating herself before the bed in blatant entreaty.

 

“I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant!” Her trembling voice caused Ilensul's chest to tighten as he sat up properly on the bed, swinging his legs around so that his feet could touch the floor. “You are back in Haven, my Lord,” the girl continued, “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It's all anyone's talked about for the last three days!”

 

As Ilensul's brows furrowed, his eyes wandering slowly down to the flickering green in his left palm, the girl slowly got herself off of the floor, her long, lanky limbs stiff and awkward as she edged closer to the door.

 

This wasn't good. Surely there had been some mistake. He couldn't be... free. He hadn't been free for a decade and a half. No one was going to set him free, would they? And this girl, a child. Calling him 'My Lord', as if he was someone... important. He didn't understand.

 

“I...” He tried to ask more, but trailed off as he realized he didn't know what to do now. He was all alone in this... cabin was it? “What happens now?” He finally asked. He might as well try. The girl might know something.

 

“I'm sure Lady Cassandra would want to know you've awakened. She said, 'At once'!” The tremors in the elf girl's voice had seemed to transfer to her body by now, quaking in her boots.

 

Pushing himself to his feet, Ilensul turned towards her, as slowly as he could in at least some effort not to spook her further, “And where is she?”

 

“In the Chantry, with the Lord Chancellor, 'at once', she said!” and with that, the girl fell over herself in her efforts to scramble away, yanking the door to the cabin open and spilling into the outdoors beyond, slamming it behind her, leaving Ilensul alone.

 

“The Chantry...” the elf muttered, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. It made sense that Cassandra was there; during their hours of travel from the cell he'd woken in to the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes, she'd explained that she was a Seeker of Truth, and the Right Hand of the Divine. While Ilensul wasn't entirely sure what all of her duties might entail, he was well read enough to know what her Order was. Serving the Chantry, yet above it as well.

 

Shaking his head, he looked around the small cabin he found himself in. The girl's frantic escape had caused a gust of cold air to blow in, telling Ilensul all he needed to know about the weather outside. Someone had changed his clothing while he'd been asleep. Gone were the rough brown tunic and trousers, the ill-fitting boots that he'd donned before. Now he wore thick leather leggings, snug and fitted to his legs, and a soft woolen tunic in pale green. His feet were only covered by leather wraps, leaving his toes bare, as they had been when they'd originally found him. The clothes were comfortable and warm, but not warm enough.

 

Someone had foreseen this though, it became evident. On a nearby table, a dark green mage's robe was neatly folded. It was a fine thing, embroidered around the chest area with gold, brown feathered pauldrons, and the small leather ties on the back that made storing his weapon possible. Next to it, there was a hairbrush, hair oil, and twine, so that he could tame the thick, tangled locks of chocolate brown on his head. And then of course in the nearby corner, the same staff he'd used on the way to the Temple, improved in fact, with its height adjusted, adorned with a well-made leather grip, and a shining new staff-blade at its butt.

 

Staring at all of it, Ilensul shifted uneasily on his feet, uncertain now. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble, just for him. Surely the clothes he'd been in before would have been enough. As far as he could remember, he hadn't broken that staff he'd found, they didn't need to improve it. Gifts, especially nice gifts like these... well, it was generally clear that reciprocation was expected. And Ilensul had nothing to give.

 

Nothing that was, except.... well, _that._ The mark on his left hand crackled and sputtered, burning slightly as if he held a mug of too hot tea. A reminder then, of what he _could_ give. Frowning a little at the implication, a small shake of his head drew him out of his reverie. There would be time to contemplate that later. As it was, there was a small washbasin and a rag there for him to clean himself.

 

After washing up, and taming his unruly hair into hip-length braid, Ilensul finally donned that extraordinary robe, holding his arms out to the sides as he looked himself over. Master Paulus had always made sure that he was garbed appropriately of course, the man had always ensured nothing Ilensul wore was ratty or unkempt. Even so, he'd never worn anything so fine as this, even in the days of freedom so long before. Did it make him look powerful? Respectable? Pretty? Without a looking glass handy, Ilensul could only guess.

 

With a sigh, he attached his new and improved staff to his back and finally made his way to the cabin door. It was now or never then, wasn't it? A good part of the elf's mind was convinced that it was best to sneak off. Slip away in the shadows, run, run as long and as hard as he could. To find something, someone that might make sense, even if it was another slaver. What was he doing here?

 

If he hadn't sealed the Breach, the girl had only said that it had stopped growing, what would they do? Chancellor Roderick wanted him to be taken to Orlais. To hang for the crimes the Chancellor was convinced he'd committed. Lady Cassandra had rebuffed the man back at the Forward Camp... but what about now? Now that he had failed? Would she be angry about that? Glad to be rid of him?

 

Another shake of his head brought out the scoff of disgust he made. What was he doing? If she was to do that, there wouldn't have been these nice clothes. Or the feather bed, the blankets, the weapon. He'd have been back in that cell. He'd faced down demons and mysterious rips into the Fade. He could do this. They weren't magisters or monsters. They were just people.

 

Swallowing heavily, Ilensul gathered his courage, and opened the cabin door.

 

– ** – ** –

 

Nothing had prepared the little elf for all _that_. So many people it seemed. Dozens. Lining the walkway that lead from the cabin he was in all the way to the Chantry. And instead of grumbling or shouting, as he'd expected due to Chancellor Roderick's previous reception of him, they simply gasped and murmured, awestruck and hopeful.

 

Thankfully for Ilensul, he was not alone. After he'd stepped out onto the packed dirt path, a more familiar voice called to him quietly. Solas. The taller elf had smiled to him kindly, and had gestured the direction they should go. Dressed in simple lambswool leggings and tunic, he wasn't even armed as he escorted Ilensul, obviously enough at ease to not feel the need to carry it.

 

He had been a calming presence for the smaller elf, giving a much needed boost to his shaky confidence. Solas was after all both another elf, and another mage. If they hadn't thrown him in chains, or treated him unfairly, perhaps it was possible for them to respond likewise to Ilensul.

 

Solas had rather discreetly deflected most of the questions that Ilensul had posed to him, and instead filled him in on what had happened at the Breach. That they had closed the large rift beneath it, the one that allowed it to continue to grow. That perhaps they might be able to seal the Breach itself, if they managed to get enough power. Only time would tell. What mattered now was that he went to Cassandra; the Lady Seeker had many matters to discuss him with him.

 

– ** – ** –

 

“Herald of... what now?” Ilensul blinked rapidly in confusion. He must have been hearing that wrong. That had to be it. The Antivan woman couldn't be correct. Surely not.

 

“The Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry,” Lady... Josephine (wasn't it?) explained, “The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.” The woman sighed with a shake of her dark head, “It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question.”

 

“Do you think the Chantry will attack us?” Ilensul's gentle voice was thankfully clear enough to be heard, drawing attention from the man and women that surrounded him. The elf didn't know much about the southern Chantry, truth be told. He knew things that he'd read in books, while Master Paulus had been doing his various researches. History, and who was in the position of Divine when, but that was largely the extent. And growing up among the Dalish, he'd only rarely encountered anyone from the religious organization.

 

“With what? They have only words at their disposal,” It was Commander Cullen that responded, his strong voice enough to bring a faint tint of blush to Ilensul's cheeks. He'd been rather happy when he'd seen he'd not dreamed up the Commander's existence, but now that he stood before the man, he could only trip over himself awkwardly.

 

“There is something you can do!” It was Sister Leliana, the kind Orlesian Ilensul remembered from the cell that spoke up, a small smile on her pretty face, “A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak with you. She is in the Hinterlands, not too far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable. Meet with her, you'll see. She's tending the wounded in the Hinterlands. Perhaps you could assist her.” The Spymaster continued smiling.. obviously, the woman already knew Ilensul's magical specialty.

 

“It wouldn't hurt to look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition's operations while you're out there in the Hinterlands,” the Commander mused, “We've only so many eyes and hands, and some people are reluctant to speak to soldiers in foreign uniforms. They might be more willing to speak with you. If you help the people you meet, you may be able to assist us in getting new information, recruits, supplies, or allies.”

 

“You're the one best suited for that sort of endeavor, I assure you, Your Worship,” Josephine added. Luckily, she took Ilensul's shock at his new honorific in stride. That was certainly something new. He'd never been called anything like that. Boy, child, little one, pet, rabbit, knife-ear, all those yes. But 'your worship'? 'Herald'? The gravity of it all made a shiver run down the elf's spine.

 

“Very well,” he finally stated, “I'll – uh – I'll go see Threnn about the things I will need to take a trip,” he hurried off with little delay, fear adding speed to his strides.

 

– ** – ** –

 

As the thick door to the War Room closed, Cullen let out a long breath, shaking his head. This little 'Herald of Andraste' was far different than he'd anticipated. And affected him far more than he'd thought the man would.

 

He'd been far too busy in the valley days before to really notice all that much about the elf he'd protected from a terror demon by that rift. Oh, he'd seen how pretty the elf had been, to not would have meant he was blind, but details had certainly been skipped. It hadn't been the time nor the place to pay attention to such things.

 

He'd gotten a longer look when he'd checked on Ilensul the next day, wrapped up in bed, blankets swaddled around him like a woolly cocoon. And Maker, how much prettier Ilensul had been then than he had been out in the field. The youthful appearance of the elf had made Cullen feel rather guilty about the whole thing, at least until Cassandra had given him the information she had about him.

 

And then of course, the guilt had only increased, just for far different reasons. Ilensul was certainly old enough to be thought of in that way – he was older than Cullen in fact – but his background? A mage? A slave? It was as if the Maker was conspiring against the Inquisition's commander to present him with a person like Ilensul. A thought only reinforced now that he'd actually spoken with the elf.

 

Ilensul – “Just Ilen, please” he'd begged – was everything that Cullen both loved and feared. He was a mage, which the man was generally uncomfortable with. But he was a spirit healer, the type of magic that he had the least fear in. He was incredibly intelligent, and yet so gentle. Beautiful, but humble.

 

“Commander? Commander?” Cassandra's voice seemed fuzzy and distant for a moment. “CULLEN!” The sharp reprimand in the Seeker's voice certainly did a good job of snapping Cullen out of his occupying thoughts.

 

“Oh,” Cullen paused to clear his throat, glancing away for a moment in the embarrassment of being caught daydreaming, “Yes, what is it?”

 

Cassandra's familiar scoff of disapproval once again didn't fail to amuse him, “If you're quite finished frittering in your head, perhaps you can go over which troops you will be sending with us to establish our base in the Hinterlands.”

 

“Ah, yes of course,” Cullen sighed as he looked at the small stack of parchment that laid on the table before him. Back to work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's noticed little Ilensul! Thanks for reading!


	4. Heroes are Everywhere

Ilensul didn't quite know what to do with himself after he left Haven's Chantry. He'd gone over to the nearby workspace of Threnn, the newly-formed Inquisition's quartermaster, and had spoken with her about needing supplies for travel and camping. But Threnn had simply said she'd take care of everything, and that if he would come back later in the afternoon, she'd have a good basic travel pack all ready for him.

 

This left the poor elf with not much to do. He'd never really been 'idle' before. Even before his decade and a half of slavery, life in a Dalish clan wasn't exactly an easy one. Ilensul had not been a 'real' hunter, but he'd helped forage with others – picking the most palatable berries, roots and tubers, and wild grasses to supplement their diets of hunted meat. He'd fished, set traps and snares for small game, woven cloth, picked herbs, and crafted potions and salves. And still then he had magical studies with his Keeper. Life had been busier then perhaps than it had been as a slave. The life of a slave was harder for certain, but in an entirely different way.

 

Now however, he had time to simply wait. There was nothing he had to do. No duties to attend while he waited for others to finish their jobs. They wouldn't leave Haven to go to the Hinterlands until the morning at the earliest. Feeling a bit aimless, Ilensul clasped his hands behind his back and began to meander, allowing his focus to become fuzzy, and his thoughts drift. It had been sixteen years since his thoughts had been given such freedom. When he hadn't needed to focus on pleasing his Master. It felt liberating, but terrifying, and he wasn't quite yet certain what to make of it.

 

“Aren't your toes freezing?” A familiar voice cut through Ilensul's wandering, hazy thoughts, and those deep brown eyes blinked rapidly as he fought for focus. It was Varric of course, squatting beside a large fire. He'd given up the leather duster he'd been wearing in the valley, and had changed his tunic to one of rich, crimson satin, open-chested of course, its hems embroidered with white thread. With a sash of deep-gold silk wrapped snugly around his waist, he looked every bit the 'merchant prince' Cassandra claimed him to be.

 

To his question though, Ilensul could only smile indulgently, “Of course not. Elves have heartier toes than most people. Odd I suppose. With dwarves living within the earth, you'd figure they would need tougher feet. Sharp rocks and all...”

 

So far, Varric was perhaps the only person he felt completely comfortable with. Dwarves didn't keep slaves, and there were very strict laws in Tevinter forbidding any person- Magister or otherwise – from keeping dwarves as slaves themselves. From what Master Paulus had told the elf, the good will of dwarves, and their supplies of lyrium, were far more important than what any number of dwarven slaves might gain them.

 

When Varric had learned that Ilensul had been a free man captured and enslaved he'd been sympathetic of course. Varric had plenty of empathy; but when it was revealed that the elf had been kidnapped in _Kirkwall,_ the dwarf had become furious. He'd fought slavers in and around Kirkwall for years, both with his friend Hawke, and on his own, he'd explained. There'd always been some, from time to time, for who knew how long, but it had been around Ilensul's own capture that slaver activity had really started to 'amp up'.

 

“Yea, Broody and Daisy always told me that too. You guys just seem so... _soft,_ ” Varric made a face, not quite a grimace, but then shook his head, “Anyway, now that Cassandra's out of earshot, how you holdin' up? You go from being an innocent slave – or the most wanted criminal in Thedas depending on who's doing the telling – to leading the armies of the faithful. Most would have spread that out over more than just a couple days.”

 

“I'm... having difficulty believing any of this is real,” Ilensul admitted, casting his eyes down at the fire before them, “I keep thinking to myself that surely I'll soon be waking up in my bed at Master Paulus' home. That it will be time to cook breakfast, and help Master with his research, or to go to market to buy for his home, or to deliver papers to Lord Alexius,” the elf sighed and shook his head, “I suppose it's crazy. I dreamed of being free for the first few years but now...”

 

Varric however seemed to understand, and nodded. He reached out one beefy hand, lifting it to pat one of Ilensul's slender shoulders, “Yea... sounds a bit like what Broody went through. Once he was free of Danarius, truly free of him with the bastard dead on the floor, he... didn't know what to do with himself for a little bit there either.” The dwarf looked up, to try and convey his sympathies... only to see Ilensul's large eyes having grown even bigger.

 

“Da-Danarius?” Ilensul couldn't help the stutter that interrupted him and made him verbally stumble. “You said your friend killed Magister Danarius?” A fresh wave of memories washed over the elf, and unable to entirely suppress a shudder, he wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his middle tightly.

 

Varric's eyebrows lowered a bit, his generous mouth tugged downward in a small frown, “Yea, he did. You knew him?”

“Not... personally or anything,” Ilensul swallowed slowly, “My first Master, Caius, he was an... associate of Magister Danarius. I couldn't say friend, Master Caius had no friends. Not friends like you do. He had people that he would associate with because he could use them, or because they were enemies worthy enough to keep an eye on.” Master Caius had exactly been 'friendly' with anyone, of any station. “He... lent me to Magister Danarius on a number of occasions. To use my abilities, to heal. Danarius was not a fair master, as far as masters go. And he possessed several slaves of particular value that he did not wish to squander. Master Caius used me then to gain favors from him.”

 

Continuing to ruminate on this discovery, Varric's eyes rather glassed over for a moment, clearly delving somewhere deep in his own memories. But finally, the shorter man sighed, “Well, I hope for your sake, that's all that bastard got to use. And he died in a shitty, piss-hole bar in Kirkwall, heart ripped from his chest, just like he deserved,” and he spat on the ground to punctuate.

 

Ilensul nodded softly in agreement, though instinctively his eyes flitted about them. In Tevinter of course, it was not considered proper for any slave to bad-mouth a freeman, especially a magister. Most were punished severely if they were caught doing such a thing, sometimes even executed, if the magister insulted was a friend of the slave's master, an ally of them, or particularly important. Old habits then would take time to die, if they ever did.

 

“For days we'd been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it... bad for morale would be an understatement,” Varric's voice pulled Ilensul from his thoughts again, having decidedly changed topics, “I still can't believe anyone was in there and lived.”

 

The elf's rueful half-smile was enough to bring one to the dwarf's face at least, “Me neither,” he admitted, and finally relaxed his arms, stretching his hands out towards the fire, “My Keeper always told me that it wasn't possible to go into the Beyond physically. It was a place of dreams and spirits and demons, not survivable to a mortal body. By all rights, I should have died in there, even if I didn't die in the explosion. That I got there in the first place is mind-boggling enough. But that I got _out_...”

 

“You're telling me,” Varric hitched his shoulders a bit, running his tongue over his teeth beneath his closed lips, “If this is just the Maker winding us up, I hope there's a damn good punchline. You might want to consider running at the first opportunity.” **That** suggestion shocked Ilensul most of all perhaps, and kept him in stunned silence as Varric continued, “I've written enough tragedies to know where this is going. Heroes are everywhere, I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes. We're gonna need a damned miracle.”

 

'Hero' perhaps was what caused Ilensul to give an undignified squeak, jerking himself away from the fire, “I'm no hero,” his insistence came swift indeed, “Lady Cassandra is perhaps. Not me. I'm just a...”

 

Varric smiled compassionately, “You're the Herald of Andraste. And you don't even know just how significant it is that it's _you_ , do you? You, over anyone else that's here.” Ilensul's minuscule head-shake was all that was needed for this explanation, “Andraste was an Alamarri woman. A barbarian woman who was kidnapped and enslaved by Tevinters. You are a Dalish elf, another so-called savage, who was kidnapped and enslaved by Tevinters. Even the least educated bumpkin out there in the boonies of Ferelden is going to know the Chant and history of the Maker's bride enough to be able to draw the similarities.”

 

The elf could only gape as Varric grinned mirthlessly, “I'm not saying you're _necessarily_ Andraste's chosen or anything... but that's what people are going to believe. And that's what the Inquisition will _let them_ believe, at least until it becomes too dangerous for you anyway.” Reaching out to give the poor elf another pat on his shoulder, the dwarf sighed, “I know it's a lot to take in but... well, try to get used to it. Maybe go to the Chantry and see what books you can read about Andraste, at least to give you some idea on what's going on in people's heads.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

Ilensul tried to focus on those Chantry books. He truly did. But they weren't _actual_ history books. They weren't even story books either. They were simply filled with unimportant information, subjective statements and opinions. From end to end, page after page of bias against the evils of magic. Propaganda against mages and little more. It had taken another exertion of his willpower not to toss the volumes he'd found into one of the braziers.

 

And so it didn't take long at all to find him back out into the chilly air, looking for something else to occupy his time. There were few people he actually knew in Haven though; most of his time there had been spent unconscious, in that call in the Chantry's sub-levels and in his little cabin. The list of nameable faces was quite short: Cassandra, Solas, Varric, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine.

 

Meeting people wasn't exactly Ilensul's specialty either. As a slave, he was meant to be seen, and not heard, at best. One was introduced to others - another slave or servant, or a freeman - by one's master, if interaction was necessary. Socializing a slave wasn't high on any master's priority list. And before Tevinter... well, everyone he'd known was someone that either had known him since his birth, or he'd known them since theirs.

 

After loitering outside the Chantry doors for a few more minutes, the elf felt an absurd wave of relief as he saw Quartermaster Threnn's hand waving at him. His face brightening, Ilensul hurried over to her. This would at least give him _something_ to do, to speak with her and then explore his travel pack from the comfortable quiet of his cabin.

 

– ** – ** –

 

It was official. Horses were the worst mounts that had ever existed. Just how the humans rode these things, day in and day out, Ilensul couldn't imagine. His dark eyes cast enviously over to the Seeker as they made their way closer and closer to the Hinterlands.

 

The war-steed she rode was large and bulky, but since it was not 'in action', it made long, lazy strides. The animal was calm and placid, its black coat looking so soft and smooth and warm. Solas' own horse was a bit smaller, a pale grey warmblooded gelding, gentle and obedient. And Varric's adorable black pony, round and chubby, its plucky face full of sweetness.

 

And then there was Ginger. The bright chestnut mare that he'd been handed the reins to was nothing like the mounts of his companions. 'Acquired' from the stables of House Du Rellion, she was a beautiful creature, Ilensul had to admit. She was a small horse, slim and sleek. She was elegant, as became a mount for a noble lady, like the one that had previously owned her.

 

She was also a hotblooded horse, as the stable boy had told him; from coldblooded to hotblooded horse varieties were categorized for their typical natures. And Ginger certainly lived up to her hotblooded personality. The animal was feisty and spirited, as well as nervous. She needed a firm hand and a steady seat, neither of which Ilensul possessed.

 

He hadn't ridden any mount at all in over fifteen years; slaves were never permitted to ride, even alongside their masters. Nothing to give them an opportunity to run away. And even before he'd been captured, he'd only ridden halla... they were far more even tempered.

 

Ginger startled and jumped, often trying to nip at the flanks and rumps of Cassandra's steed, or Solas'. She'd tried once to bite at Varric's pony, but the little guy have nipped right back in retaliation, and so she'd given up.

 

“Does it... _ever_ get better?” Ilensul almost whimpered as they made their way down a rather steep, rocky incline. By this time, the poor man hurt everywhere; his back, his shoulders, his legs, and most especially his backside. They'd been riding for hours, stopping only once to stretch legs and water the horses.

 

It was Solas who glanced back at him, a tiny smile on his lips, “It does da'len, do not worry. You do become accustomed to it, after a time...” the bald elf trailed off as he switched his gaze to Ginger's face, as she pulled and yanked at her bit, tossing her head, “You just might take a little longer than normal, given your... 'special' mount.” Varric guffawed at that, and even Cassandra couldn't resist a low chuckle.

 

“Yes, she's 'special' alright...” Ilensul grumbled as he held on tighter. Thank the Creators, he could finally see an Inquisition base camp in the distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the Hinterlands!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> PS - as a reminder, I don't have a beta reader, so I apologize for typos and grammatical errors!


	5. Time in Haven

_Commander Cullen_

 

_You will need to determine which of your officers might perform best as a weapons trainer for the Herald. While a sword or shield are not suitable for his physical limitations or talents, perhaps someone will be able to teach him skill with his staff or daggers._

 

_While the Herald's magic is sufficient to protect him in normal circumstances, our circumstances are rarely normal in these days. Almost half of our encounters in the Hinterlands have been with templars, templars who have no inclination to parlay with us, and who attack any and all that they come across without provocation – mages, Inquisition forces, and unfortunately civilian refugees as well._

 

_And they have made it clear they know exactly who the Herald is. Solas is with our party, and is far more adept at offensive magic than the Herald, but they focus their Silences and mana drains on the Herald anyway, regardless of the danger it puts them in with leaving Solas free to cast._

 

_The Herald will need to learn to protect himself without his magic, at a minimum to be able to defend himself until assistance can be rendered._

 

_Think on it – I expect that you will have likely candidates by the time we return to Haven. We anticipate making the journey at the end of the week._

 

_Seeker Cassandra Pentagahst_

 

 

Cullen frowned slightly as he read the short letter, shaking his head with a sigh. It was bad news all around, though some not entirely unanticipated. That Ilensul wasn't martially skilled was to be expected. He was a mage after all, and most mages relied on their powers to defend themselves, or to attack others. Besides that, he'd been a slave; while Cullen wasn't exactly educated in how slavery worked, he could imagine that masters didn't want slaves that could fight back.

 

More disconcerting was the behavior of the templars that Inquisition forces had come across. Cassandra's account of their encounters weren't the first reports he'd seen. The scouts and the soldiers both had sent back missives explaining the state of things. While Cullen wouldn't have said so in front of Ilensul, Solas, or the other mages in the Inquisition's ranks, he didn't entirely blame the templars for attacking some – they were in a war against mages after all, any mage might be in truth an enemy combatant.

 

But that they attacked non-mage soldiers who tried to parlay, attacked Cassandra despite the fact that she was a Seeker, and worst of all attacked unarmed civilians? It wasn't to be borne, and the wave of nausea that tightened the Commander's stomach was hard to push aside. He knew the Order wasn't what he'd thought it was; that was the whole reason he'd left in the first place. But he had thought there were still pieces, still traces of it, somewhere.

 

“Mother Giselle! Thank you for coming, welcome to Haven Your Reverence,” Leliana's soft voice from the open War Room door finally drew the Commander's attention, though he didn't dare look up from his paperwork yet. Without a real desk in his own cabin yet, he tended to do most of it there.

 

Distracted by reports and requests, he only caught portions of the conversation between the two Chantry women.

 

“We didn't anticipate your arrival so quickly!” Leliana certainly had the right of it. She'd insisted that the Revered Mother wouldn't leave the Crossroads until every single wounded had been tended to.

 

“I had help of course, Sister,” The older woman's Orlesian accent was far stronger than the Spymaster's, but thankfully still clear enough to be understood, “Your Herald spent many hours with me. He healed as many injured as he could, far many more than we would have been able to with the limited supplies we had. His magic was a blessing, that he gave so freely until he fell unconscious, the poor dear.”

 

Cullen's gloved hand tightened on his quill, his frown deep as he glared down at his reports. He'd been around mages long enough to know what had happened, and the risks involved. Mages only had so much mana at any given time. Expending it at all gave them some fatigue, the more spent, the more fatigue, like any other energy resource. It was rare than a mage that had been raised to adulthood and educated even minimally in their magic used so much mana so quickly that they passed out. They could make themselves ill or worse doing such a thing, and so most learned their limitations early.

 

Leliana it seemed shared the Commander's concern, “Is he alright?”

 

“Oh yes, he is just fine. A good night's sleep and a large breakfast were all that was required to set him right. And of course, a stern lecture from Seeker Pentagahst about the dangers of overexertion,” the Mother chuckled gently.

 

He didn't need to look up to see the smirk that played across Leliana's lips, “Oh I'm sure. Just as I am that she'll have to give the same lecture many times in the weeks to come. The Herald is a kind soul, and I don't doubt that he will do whatever he can to help those he comes across. Even perhaps to his own detriment. Not entirely unlike other spirit healers I've known in my time.”

 

Or in Cullen's. He'd only known two other spirit healers personally in his time; the specialization was a rare and valuable one. Many mages learned simple healing spells of course. To mend sprains, simple clean breaks. Fix typical cuts and scrapes.

 

Spirit healing was different however; spirit healers could bring people back from the brink. Cleanse diseases and infections. Heal monstrous wounds. Some could even reattach limbs if they were brought quickly enough.

 

And it wasn't something that could simply be taught like average spellwork. Either one could become a spirit healer, or they couldn't. Whether it was a physical limitation or personality, or spiritual, Cullen couldn't say, though he was no magic expert.

 

Ilensul however was different than the other spirit healers Cullen had known. Wynne had been kind, but she was also pragmatic and no-nonsense. Anders had been... well, Anders. Snarky and glib, uncomfortably flirtatious in his younger years, and most decidedly self-absorbed. Years later in Kirkwall he'd been better, at least to hear the people talk about his Darktown clinic. But then he'd...

 

Cullen shook his head again. There was no point in thinking on that right now, or he'd never get done. Picking his quill up again, he began to sign the stack of requisitions and requests.

 

“He does have a kind soul, especially after having been through so much. That he cares for humans as much as he does other elves, when he's been subjected to the worst of Mankind, speaks for his character. He is your biggest asset Sister Leliana, even beyond that mark on his hand,” The Revered Mother's tongue was gentle, but strong. “I hope that while you use him to the Inquisition's advantage, you ensure that he is not squandered. Look after his welfare not simply because he can bring you benefit, but because he deserves to receive some of the kindness that he gives.”

 

Cullen wrote faster.

 

– ** – ** –

 

Ilensul groaned as he brought his staff down onto the neck of the training dummy, the action slow, sloppy, and weary. He and Captain Rylen had been at it for over two hours now, and the elf was beginning to become exhausted.

 

When he'd first started 'weapons training' with Rylen, Ilensul had been rather happy; he had no overwhelming desire to use melee weapons, but he liked to hear the Captain talk. The man's rich, Starkhaven brogue was familiar, bringing back old memories of being with his clan. Clan Lavellan had many dealings with the various city-states of The Free Marches, but routinely traveled between Kirkwall, Starkhaven, and Markham. The lilting accents of Starkhaven's sons reminded him of Satinalia, of making masks and giving gifts. A happy, if too brief time in his life.

 

Now however, Ilensul was regretting ever having met the taskmaster that was Captain Rylen. The man was a beast, surely. Or maybe a demon. A devil wrapped up in armor, tempting him with that damned beautiful voice, lulling him into a false sense of security, and then ambushing him with a cruelty that resulted in aching shoulders, sore feet, and blisters on his hands.

 

“That hit wouldn't bruise a bunny, Your Worship,” the good Captain gently admonished, “Much less do anything to deter a templar that's lustin' for yer blood. Shoulders back... arms out... elbows bent slightly, dinnae lock them straight...”

 

For all the unflattering things Ilensul called Rylen in his head, the truth was that the man _was_ exceptionally patient. He was perhaps not an expert in how to wield a staff martially to its best effect, he knew enough to begin teaching Ilensul the basics. And had enough patience not to throw up his hands at the little elf's slow progress, or steady stream of complaints.

 

A now familiar chuckle, soft and gentle, mercifully interrupted the lesson, and Ilensul took the opportunity to plant his staff's butt into the ground, leaning on it for support.

 

“Captain... I think the Herald might have had enough for today...” It was the Commander of course. Always the Commander who came to 'supervise'... supervision that typically just ended up making Ilensul woefully distracted and tripping over his own feet.

 

The elf didn't dare look up yet as Rylen snorted, “He'll never build stamina if we don't push him, Sir,” An argument given at the end of each training session, every day for the past week and a half.

 

“His endurance has already grown Captain,” It was rather sweet that the Cullen defended him, though Ilensul couldn't help but feel embarrassment over the matter. The only reason he'd even agreed to begin training was so that he could impress the man... as juvenile as that sounded in his head. “He was barely able to go three-quarters of an hour not but ten days ago, “Cullen continued, “and now he's been at it for nearly two.”

 

Suppressing a groan, Ilensul finally looked up at the pair, “ _ **HE**_ is right here in front of you, you know...” the elf reminded them, “You needn't speak of me as if I'm not here.” Some part of him had wanted to simply fade into the background during the two military men's discussion. Perhaps most of him did. It was where he was most comfortable. Where he belonged. However this... was _Cullen_. Despite the deep desire to be ignored, that foolhardy, _foolish_ part of his heart couldn't help but want the Commander to see him.

 

Besides... they _were_ talking about him as if he wasn't there. Thankfully, his words seemed to have the intended effect, as both men looked thoroughly chastised, and Cullen's cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

 

“My sincere apologies, Your Worship,” Rylen gave a shallow, hasty bow, “That was impolite, you are right of course. You are progressing, the Commander is correct in that. Perhaps I'm simply overeager in my lessons. I believe we've done all we can, at least for now. I look forward to continuing.” Eager perhaps to avoid any further punishment for the slight, the Captain bid the other two a hurried farewell before scurrying away to resume his normal duties.

 

Which of course left Ilensul alone with the Commander. The elf cleared his throat, a rather lame attempt at nonchalance, before he attached his staff to his back, and gestured before them, “Would you care to accompany me back to... er... town?” It wasn't exactly a real town perhaps, but close enough. He and Rylen had been training well outside the palisade walls, even some distance from the training recruits.

 

The Commander nodded and turned to the correct direction, waiting until Ilensul came up alongside to begin walking, adjusting his longer stride to meet the smaller elf's.

 

“It's uh.... it's a nice day, isn't it?” Thankful for the mess his hair was at the moment, Ilensul tried to hide the wince that came to his face at his own words. He couldn't 'act natural' to save his life could he? What had happened to all the training Master Caius had put into him to keep him from revealing every little thing that went through his head and heart? Had a mere month of freedom really undone all that training? Master Paulus would have been quite put out had he showed so much indiscretion so soon after leaving Caius' care, that was for certain.

 

Cullen however didn't seem to notice the elf's awkwardness, “Hm? Oh yes, I suppose it is. Not quite so cold as yesterday, is it? The sun's certainly helping.” How did that man seem so... normal?

 

Was it just Ilensul's imagination then? Wishful thinking that the Commander looked at him more often? He had been sure that the man stared at him from time to time in the 'War Room', beyond simply looking at him politely while Ilensul spoke. But if he had caught Cullen's eye... how could he be so... _normal_ about it?

 

As Cullen began to chatter comfortably about the progress of recruits, and supplies, and other Inquisition matters, the thought that the man's interest in him was anything other than professional seemed more and more unlikely. Ilensul nodded along, murmuring occasionally to keep up the illusion that he was still listening, keeping his dark eyes upon Cullen's noble profile. At least while the Commander spoke, he could look as much as he pleased while appearing to be only polite.

 

For the Commander was truly someone Ilensul wished not only that he could be with, but that he could be like. Strong, intelligent, talented, handsome... _tall_. Yes, surely Ilensul knew that something had gone wrong in the man's life; the haunted look that time and again shadowed behind the man's golden eyes hinted at something terrible and dark. But then... hadn't they all been through things like that? Rare indeed was even a young recruit in the Inquisition that didn't have some horrible story to tell, to try and move on from.

 

“Herald? Are you alright?” Cullen's question, and his face filled with innocent concern had the elf sputtering for a moment, color filling his pretty face as he realized that the man had stopped talking, and walking too, and that he'd just... kept on staring, like an idiot.

 

“What? Oh uh... yes, I ah...” swallowing thickly, Ilensul shook out his arms, “I was just distracted. Stiff joints and all. I should see about finding a salve for that. Thank you for walking me back to 'town' Commander. I'll see you later!” Turning abruptly on his heel, the mage scurried away as fast as his little feet could carry him, face red, not daring to look back and humiliate himself further.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little bit of filler I'll admit, plus I like bumbling Ilensul hehe. The next chapter will definitely move things forward though! Thanks for reading!


	6. Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Feature tonight! Thanks for reading!

“We say this is a false prophet!” Revered Mother Hevara sneered as she looked down from her stage to the small, robed elf, “The Maker would send no _**ELF**_ in our hour of need!”

 

Ilensul let out a soft sigh, shaking his head slowly. He'd told Cassandra and Josephine that the Chantry's clergy wouldn't listen. That they would do whatever it took to try to discredit him and his ability, no matter how much good he did. They didn't care if he might have the power to close the Breach. Or that he was the only person known to be able to close the demonic rifts either. They didn't care for the people, only for their own power. Not so very different from Magisters, truthfully.

 

But both Seeker and Ambassador had insisted. After weeks of planning and arranging, he'd come reluctantly to Val Royeaux, warning Cassandra each step of the way. Warnings that went unheeded of course. Ilensul made a mental note to tell the Seeker 'I told you so' when they were done. If he lived that is.

 

“Never have claims of holiness fallen from my lips, Your Reverence,” His gentle words were loud enough to be heard by the crowd around him, sheer force of will keeping his voice steady and serene, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to run and hide. “I claim neither the Maker's hand nor His will,” he continued, “I simply want to close the hole in the sky, and to bring back some order from this chaos! The people are not only frightened but endangered! By the Breach, by demons, by the war created by this very Chantry's negligence! Aren't you honor-bound to protect the people?”

 

“It's true!” Cassandra finally stepped up beside him to add her voice to the call for peace, “The Inquisition seeks to stop this madness before it is too late!”

 

“It is already too late!” Mother Hevara gestured with a flourish with her hand to her left, all eyes following as a group of templars marched their way towards the makeshift stage that had been set up in the bazaar. “The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this Inquisition, and the people will be safe once more!”

 

This time, no amount of slave training could hold back Ilensul's scoff of disgust. These people were delusional. That had to be it. Some form of... psychosis, or something, they lost their minds. Were all humans this idiotic, this insane when they had a smidgen of power, like this 'Revered Mother' was? The word 'revered' was in her title, how could it not go to her head?

 

The clanking of templar armor however drew his mind to the present. And just in time it seemed. The 'Mother' bowed her head slightly as the obvious leader of the templar group passed her, unaware until it was too late to notice that the man who followed him was about to harm her. With a clenched hand, he slammed his fist into the back of the clergywoman's head, causing her to drop like a stone to the stage floor as the crowd gasped in shock.

 

The young templar that had previously stood beside the priestesses on stage shifted back, and then forward, clearly uncomfortable, even as his superior came to him and patted his arm, “Still yourself!” He admonished the younger man with what one might even consider fatherly affection if it weren't for the steely twist of his tone, “She is beneath us!”

 

“What's the meaning of this?!” Ilensul's mouth was once again too fast for his brain. He _should_ have taken this opportunity to leave, to allow the distraction of the selfish, idiotic Chantry Mothers give him the time to get away from templars. He was a mage after all. But his inner sense of honor had him calling out out instead. Like a fool.

 

The 'leader' of the templars turned to face the little elf, his nose wrinkling in disgust, “Her claim to authority is an insult! Much like your own!” He turned then to walk down the stairs of the stage opposite the ones he'd climbed to get on it.

 

Cassandra however quickly followed, “Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak with --”

 

But the Seeker was rudely interrupted by Lucius, who didn't even deign to look at her yet, “You will not address me...”

 

The woman paused, brow furrowing a bit in confusion, “Lord Seeker?”

 

“Creating a heretical movement,” Lucius paused finally to turn to them, gesturing to the elf with one armored finger, “Raising up a puppet as Andraste's prophet, you should be ashamed.” The man's sneer only grew, his blue eyes hardening in a manner that unnerved Ilensul, in a manner that he couldn't yet identify.

 

The Lord Seeker went on however, waving his hand to gesture to them, “You should _all_ be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!” He lifted his hand again to point at Ilensul and Cassandra, “ _You_ are the ones who have failed! You, who'd leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine_.”

 

“ **Righteous**?” Ilensul was incredulous, “What righteousness do you have? I've seen templars killing innocent women and children in the Hinterlands, setting fire to the homes of old people while they're still in them, stealing food from babes if they didn't run swords through their bellies first!”

 

The emotional weight of the terrible things he'd seen since riding out of Haven for the first time all came crashing down on the poor elf, and weak as he was, he was unable to stem that floodgate. “The templars have become worse than bandits since leaving the Chantry! They do not even hold to their self proclaimed purpose, even when that purpose is as twisted and foul as killing innocents for an accident of birth!”

 

Growling lowly, Ilensul's lips curled showing the elongated canine teeth that was a hallmark of Dalish elves, the first sign of aggression the little elf had ever shown. It was so out of character that even Cassandra took a little step back, “So if you aren't here for the Chantry, you just come to make speeches! Have you always been this useless?”

 

Lucius however was not intimidated, “I came to see what frightens old women so, and to _laugh_. They'd said it was a rabbit, but you're little more than a mouse,” he jeered.

 

The young templar that had stood on the stage, who had been 'comforted' by the Lord Seeker stepped forward however, looking uncertain even still, “But my Lord, what if... what if he really _was_ sent by the Maker?” The question was enough to startle both Lucius and Ilensul.

 

The templar that had punched Mother Hevara though only frowned, “You are called to a higher purpose,” he reminded the young man, “Do not question.” The lad looked down with a barely discernible nod of his shaved head.

 

Lucius however lifted his round chin, “ _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition, independence!” The man snorted loftily, “You have shown me _nothing_ , and the Inquisition less than nothing.” Straightening his shoulders, the man ticked his head a bit to call to those behind him, “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

 

It was only after the group of templars marched out of sight, and the crowd that had gathered had begun to disperse that all that bravado and courage wavered. It left Ilensul as quickly as it had come, and he let out a deep, aching sigh as he sagged, just barely managing to stay on his feet... mostly due to the quick reflexes of Varric, who hurried to his side as he and Solas came to join both Herald and Seeker.

 

A good thing too, as Cassandra was still far too distracted to be much help to the flagging elf. “Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?” she finally asked, her eyes still shadowed in disbelief as they stared in the direction the templars had gone.

 

“Do you know him well, Lady Seeker?” Solas queried as he reached out to help adjust Ilensul's staff on his back, gently nudging aside the dwarf's arm around the Herald's waist to take over 'support duty' with one of his arms around Ilensul's shoulders, allowing the smaller elf to lean against him.

 

The woman shrugged slightly, the shield on her back shifting slightly with the movement, “He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert's death. He was always a _decent_ man, never given to ambition or grandstanding... this is very bizarre.” The longer she thought on it, the more confused the Seeker seemed.

 

After a few moments of silence however, Ilensul cleared his throat, “I suppose then we can't count on Templar assistance...” He sounded neither disappointed nor happy about the circumstance, simply resigned.

 

But Cassandra remained unconvinced, “I wouldn't write off the templars hastily, Herald. There are surely those in the Order who don't agree with the Lord Seeker.”

 

“Be that as it may, templars are dangerous folk for people like me... both as a mage, and an elf.” True enough perhaps, as elves were not allowed to join the order in any real capacity. And had a knack for not being terribly frightened of mages for virtue of being mages, and thus on occasion would help apostates, leading to uncomfortable and at times unfortunate confrontations. “If those who don't fall in rank behind the Lord Seeker reach out, I will gladly listen, Cassandra. But I won't put myself or others in danger to run after and beg those who not only don't want to help, but probably actively wish to harm me.”

 

As much as Cassandra's minor disapproval of his statements made the already rather tender elf nervous, Solas' firm embrace of his shoulders helped bolster him. The older elf had slowly warmed up to Ilensul during the weeks since their first meeting. He'd been somewhat callous of Ilensul's Dalish upbringing perhaps, but willing to listen, and even more willing to impart what wisdom he knew. Varric was welcoming and friendly, and Ilensul enjoyed his company, but Solas' steady quiet and familiar features were perhaps more comforting than anything else he'd found in this Inquisition.

 

Though Ilensul never dared voice it, once he had learned Solas' opinion of the Dalish, but he found the taller elf's personality and ways very similar to his old Keeper's. Keeper Istimaethoriel was patient and kind, but was firm when the situation called for it, and downright deadly when it came to the protection of the clan. She was wise even beyond her own years, much like Solas it seemed, and open-minded as well. Even without vallaslin, Solas reminded Ilensul of a home he had almost forgotten.

 

“C'mon,” Varric finally piped up after several minutes of silence, “There's still plenty to do here, even if the Mothers and templars aren't playing nice. I'm gonna guess business has been down for a bit for a lot of merchants, and that means we can get some good prices for stuff on that list Josephine gave you.”

 

Ilensul chuckled weakly and gave the dwarf a small smile. Lady Montilyet had been quite eager to send him with a list and letters of mark when it was decided he was going to Val Royeaux. There were things that were simply necessary for the Inquisition and its infrastructure of course – finding more food and material distributors and the like. But there were a number of things that he thought were probably just for her.

 

Solas it seemed, caught on. “The Val Royeaux market was once nothing but tents of oiled leather and mud,” he explained with a patient smile as the small party turned, “Filled with ragged humans, selling strings of beads made of bone.”

 

Varric looked skeptical as he reached back to adjust Bianca on his back, “You saw this in the Fade?”

 

The bald elf's smile widened indulgently, “Yes. I left that memory quickly though. The _smell..._ ”

 

Ilensul glanced up curiously to Solas, attentive as ever to any of Solas' stories about his wanderings of the Fade. Ilensul knew a little of the sorts of things Solas did there, the memories and bits of wisdom to be found, but it was very little, especially compared to Solas. “That must have been ages ago...” Certainly the glittering splendor of Val Royeaux betrayed the scene that Solas was describing.

 

The taller elf chuckled and nodded, “Oh yes. It's much better now. I enjoy the frilly cakes.” With the soft giggle that escaped the Herald, his hand slapping across his mouth to muffle it, the whole party seemed to relax. They knew that Ilensul was not made of glass. He was a grown man, despite his short stature and delicate frame. His patience with almost everything made his maturity obvious.

 

But he had been until not but six weeks ago a slave. Treated as 'less than' no matter how intelligent he was. No matter how kind and generous. And while he never spoke of abuse, it laid there bare behind his dark, expressive eyes. Varric was perhaps especially attuned to just how psychologically tender Ilensul actually was. And so they sought to help him where they could. It would take time for him to 'toughen up', as it were. And all three of Ilensul's companions were in agreement that he shouldn't have to 'toughen' alone.

 

“Let's go find some frilly cakes then,” Varric offered, rummaging through one of his belt pouches with a gloved hand, “We need some lunch anyway. My treat.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

_NG –_

 

_Hens refuse to lay, roosters refuse to fight. Rabbit in field, but back to the warren soon._

 

_\--C_

 

_PS – Plenty of frilly cakes wrapped and en route. Enjoy._

 

Leliana couldn't help but smile at the note, even if its contents made her frustrated. Sweets were always a favorite for her, and would go far in helping boost the morale of the others as well. As kind as the thoughtfulness of Charter was though, the other information the brief missive held was not as good as they had hoped. That the Revered Mothers wouldn't accept Ilensul as a 'Herald of Andraste' wasn't surprising in the slightest.

 

But she had hoped with now more than six weeks since Justinia's death, they might be more concerned about the Breach, and the people who had been hurt or displaced because of the rifts left in its wake and by the fighting in the Mage-Templar war. That the templars had refused to help, well that perhaps was not surprising either. Despite their vows to protect the people, there were few templars Leliana had ever known to actually fulfill them. And most who did make those steps did as Cullen had, and left the Order to do just that.

 

The most important thing however was that Ilensul was still alive. Neither the templars nor the Chantry had made a move to arrest or execute him. That meant at least _some_ of them thought differently than the others. That would surely help their cause. That Ilensul's return to Haven would rub the Chantry's lack of action against him in Chancellor Roderick's face? Well that was just icing on that very frilly cake.

 


	7. No Breeches!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels a little weird to me, so it may be edited at a later date!

“Just say... what!”

 

“What is the meaning – “ the little Orlesian man didn't even have time to finish his flustered question before the bow twanged and an arrow lodged itself straight into his mouth. The Orlesian dropped into a lifeless heap in the little courtyard, only giving a single, faint gurgle before silencing forever.

 

The person who shot him wrinkled her nose in disgust. She was an elf, certainly not what Ilensul had expected, several inches taller than himself with a choppy, uneven mop of blonde hair. Her slippered feet were quiet over the courtyard's pave stones as she approached, “Squishy one, but you heard me right? Just say what?” Her sneer at the Orlesian softened somewhat as she continued, “Rich tits always try for more than they deserve...”

 

Ilensul was still too stunned to respond, but the elf-woman didn't seem to notice too much. Instead, she squatted down, her plaidweave leggings stretching as she yanked the arrow out of the Orlesian's face, “Blah blah _BLAH_! Obey me! Arrow in my face!” She grinned a little at the bloodied arrowhead as she raised it to her face for inspection.

 

The young Herald though, simply didn't know what to do. She didn't _seem_ to have any plans for attacking him. That self-important Orlesian had of course, but she'd shot him. This evening was turning out... strange. And he'd thought meeting the Grand Enchanter had been odd. This... this was definitely weirder.

 

“So, you followed the notes well enough,” the female elf's words brought Ilensul's attention back to the fore, his dark eyes widening a bit as she stepped over to stand in front of him. “Glad to see you're... and you're an elf,” Odd perhaps, how disappointed she seemed at that, “Well. Hope you're not too... elfy.”

 

One of Ilensul's eyebrows rose slightly at that, and he looked over his shoulder to where Solas stood behind him, but the bald elf simply shrugged, seeming to be as baffled by that as he was. Varric however looked like he was ready to burst out laughing, while Cassandra – predictably – seemed ready to lecture, scowling in disapproval. “Uh... 'elfy'?” Ilensul finally dared to question as he looked back to the female.

 

But she simply gave him a strained smile and nodded, “I mean it's all good innit? The important thing is you _glow_. You're the Herald thingy.” Well, at least she got that part right. Maybe she wasn't entirely crazy.

 

“Some people seem to like calling me the Herald of Andraste,” Ilensul admitted with a sigh, “But who are you? And what's this about?” Right to the point then, that was probably the best thing for now. This elf woman didn't seem keen on hurting him, but who knew about crazy, bow wielding women in dark courtyards?

 

“No idea, I don't know this idiot from manners,” the blonde smiled to Ilensul as if she had made perfect sense, “My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

 

“Your people? I can guess you don't mean other elves...”

 

The woman scoffed, “No, not elves. _People_ people,” as if that explained everything, “M'name's Sera,” Sera gestured to a stack of nearby crates, “This is Cover, get 'round it... for the reinforcements!” She grinned mischievously, giving Ilensul a conspiratorial wink, “Don't worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed...” Her smile turned positively impish, big blue eyes sparkling, “They've got no breeches!”

 

– ** – ** –

 

Ilensul groaned as he collapsed in his bed, finally locked away in the room rented for him in Val Royeaux proper. He hadn't really known what to expect when Sera had said 'no breeches'... but he hadn't actually anticipated fighting men in their only their breastplates and small clothes. Seeing the quartet of literally half armored men, their pale legs almost glowing in the moonlit court, had nearly been enough to send him into hysterics. Varric had certainly cracked up, and had been unable to stop laughing for a solid five minutes once they'd all been dropped.

 

It had rather set the stage for Sera's 'official' recruitment. While the woman loudly held no love for her elven heritage, having another elven fighter in the mix helped Ilensul, even if he didn't say so aloud. The more elves there were in the Inquisition, the less staring he would get walking about Haven. At least, that was the hope.

 

And perhaps convince whatever voice it was inside of him that kept trying to fit him into a slave-shaped hole. It wasn't something Ilensul couldn't exactly help. It had been so long since he'd been free. The dark shadow of Master Caius, and the memory of Master Paulus – a memory made more confusing with each day that passed it seemed – still lingered at the forefront of his mind.

 

His instincts told him that this was temporary. That if he survived closing the Breach, they (whoever 'they' were – Cassandra? Leliana? Josephine? Cullen?) would send him back to Tevinter. And worse, that they wouldn't even bother to find the mage that Master Paulus had willed him to. The one that Paulus had promised would take care of him and wouldn't allow him to be hurt. That he'd just be handed off to slavers, like the ones who'd caught him all those years before. Sold off at an auction like he had back then. And would end up with a cruel, heartless man like Master Caius had been.

 

Of course, none of those people had ever given him any indication of such a plan. All were horrified that he had been a slave. And worse, that he'd been a slave that was actually at the Conclave. All four had insisted that no matter what happened, he would never end up in slavery again; slavery had been illegal in southern Thedas for centuries now. They certainly wouldn't start it again by re-enslaving someone who had saved the world by closing the Breach.

 

And logically, Ilensul knew this. Despite some differences in opinions among the group regarding mages and their confinement (though Ilensul didn't see much difference between slavery and what he'd heard about southern Circles), all had been quite vocal in their disgust for slavery in Tevinter. Besides that, each member of the 'council' now had their own separate relationship with Ilensul, rather than just as a group of advisers.

 

He knew that Cassandra was utterly loyal to him now. She questioned his decisions at times, but always intelligently – she didn't question just to bicker. She respected him.

 

Josephine he knew found him sweet, as she told him many times now. She delighted in talking about fashion and clothes with him, to gossip about what styles were popular in Tevinter among the nobles that Ilensul had seen about Minrathos, what colors, what fabrics. They snuck candied fruit, gossiped about the nobles that had begun to arrive from time to time in Haven, and secretly lamented the little village's lack of amenities together.

 

He knew that Leliana was as protective of him as if he were her baby brother, never suffering a bad word about the small elf to be uttered in her hearing, no matter the speaker's reasoning. She claimed of course it was for the Inquisition's security, as well as their reputation, but even Ilensul had to admit her punishments for offenders was a little severe.

 

And Cullen... well, Ilensul had mistaken him for a knight in shining armor before, and that view hadn't changed in the weeks he'd known the man. Handsome, intelligent, talented, loyal, a true asset to the Inquisition. Ilensul could admit to some bias perhaps, but each time he managed a conversation without either tripping over his own feet, or managing to stick them in his mouth, he became more convinced of the Commander's goodness. He was fair with the recruits he trained, disciplining them as they needed, but never cruel. There was some discomfort in him around mages – Ilensul included at times – but he tried very hard to get past it.

 

Why then, Ilensul wondered as he flopped over onto his back, did that same old worry keep gnawing at him? Why did those fears keep lurking, when the hold, that iron grip of Tevinter only seemed farther and farther away with each passing week? His apprehension, his fear of those who openly and publicly committed to following him, only made him frustrated. They were trusting him after all. Why was it so hard to trust them back, at least a little?

 

Groaning, Ilensul rubbed his face with his hands, casting aside the thoughts. There was enough else going on soon that he didn't need to think about that. The following afternoon he'd be going to that salon, invited by Madame de Fer. While Cassandra had never met the woman personally, she had heard of her, and gave Ilensul as many tips as she could... though the Seeker's lack of interest in the socializing of nobility left her with little information to give him save for Madame de Fer's position in the Circles before their dissolution.

 

Thankfully, it was not the party that had Ilensul worried; he'd been to enough salons and soirees with both of his masters to know how to behave in polite company. It was the Madame herself that intimidated him. Despite having no clue who she was, Ilensul knew that she was important. First Enchanter to a Circle, Royal Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais. She was... _someone_. While Ilensul, his instincts told him, was decidedly _not_. Even if he hadn't been a slave, he was still just a 'wild Dalish savage'.

 

With a flail, the elf let his arms flop onto the bed. He needed to get up, use the bathtub that had been thoughtfully brought to his room, _sleep_ lest he be walking dead on his feet into that salon. Cassandra had already warned that going would be like walking into a lion's den in even the best of circumstances, and Ilensul knew that enough to be true. Orlesians might choose to engage in character assassinations rather than literal ones like Tevinter, but it was just as dangerous.

 

Whining quietly, he was content to simply lie there and procrastinate, but a knock on his door got him scrambling back to his feet, “That doesn't sound like bathing, lethallin,” Solas' voice through the door was gently chiding. Ilensul had nearly forgotten that he'd asked Solas to check on him, in case he'd fallen asleep right away once he'd gotten to his room.

 

“Fenedhis, hahren!” Ilensul barked back, knowing he didn't sound nearly as snarling as he wished to. He sounded like a child and he knew it. But if Solas wanted to nag like his father, then he could handle being treated to behavior his father had unfortunately been subject to, all those years ago. “I'm getting there, I'm getting there...” He finally grumbled, but loudly enough so that he knew the other elf could hear him. At least to judge by the low chuckle he could hear through the wooden door.

 

“Ma nuvenin, da'len. I just wanted to remind you. You'll want all your wits about you tomorrow.” The bald elf's footsteps were almost silent as he wandered away from Ilensul's room.

 

– ** – ** –

 

The salon hadn't been a _complete_ disaster, Ilensul supposed as they boarded the ship that would take them back to Ferelden.

 

Sure, he'd tripped over his own feet in the foyer of the Ghislain Estate. He'd hardly noticed when the doorman announced him, almost missing his cue to enter the party proper. Fumbled nervously through introductions of nobles who'd been eager to meet him, stammering as awkwardly as a youth. And he certainly hadn't shown himself to be a fearsome opponent when confronted by Marquis Alphonse, nearly skittering behind the voluminous skirts of the Orlesian woman he'd been speaking with.

 

But he  _ had _ managed to secure the allegiance of Madame de Fer, Vivienne. Of course, Ilensul was rather convinced that she would have joined even if he'd shown up wearing a jester's cap and naught else. She had already known what she wanted to do; his invitation to her salon was merely a formality, to give the appearance that he had sought out her, rather than Vivienne simply 'inviting herself to the party', as it were.

 

Still, she had been polite to him, remarked favorably on his magic's specialization, and of the reputation he'd unknowingly cultivated. 

 

“You are in a position that requires respect, my dear,” she'd said to him privately before he'd departed from the Ghislain Estate, “The Inquisition is growing, and all eyes will be on you. But your humility does you credit.” Her smile had been soft as she'd looked down at him, and the expression had grown when he'd bowed over her hand to kiss her knuckles during his goodbyes, “Aren't you charming? I look forward to working with you. Great things are beginning my dear, I can promise you that.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

Cullen frowned impatiently as he walked up and down the rows of sparring recruits, bristling at the ever-present officer at his elbow. He tried to keep his steps closer to a relaxed saunter, rather than the frustrated march that his legs itched for. The trainees needed someone calm and collected, not a man worrying like a wife waiting for her soldier husb – no, that comparison was one he didn't need to finish, even in his head.

 

The Herald and his party were late. They'd been due to return from Val Royeaux the previous morning, but as of yet, had not shown. It had been a sleepless night for the Inquisition's Commander; Leliana had assured him repeatedly that she'd gotten reports from her people in the city that Ilensul, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas had left the city, and had boarded the proper ship. They'd not been harmed by either Orlesian secular officials or templars.

 

Despite her soothing however, Cullen couldn't help but worry. He couldn't help the nagging feeling that he hadn't done enough to protect the Hera – Ilen. He shouldn't have allowed them to go. It had been too dangerous, just like he'd feared. His mind's eye brought up Ilen's pretty face, his gentle smile, the compassion in his dark eyes.

 

Cursing as he almost tripped over his own boots, Cullen forced his mind to the task before he lost himself in thoughts he should not be having the first place. “You there!” He barked out to a nearby recruit, “That's a shield in your hand, block with it! If that man were your enemy, you'd be dead. Lieutenant!” His voice was almost a snarl as he jerked his head back to his nearby officer, “Don't hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one!” The Commander's scowl remained as the lieutenant gave a snapped salute and hurried to go and correct the chastised recruit.

 

Thankfully for the remaining recruits, they were spared as the tower at the far gates, at the outer palisade wall far from Haven's 'main' walls called out and rang a bell. The fury and impatience in the Commander's face seemed to relax almost instantly at the sound, and an unbidden smile had lit up his face as he turned and hurried down the path, his step light.

 

His eagerness of course was not missed. Several soldiers giggled quietly, pausing their sparring to watch for just a moment as their Commander rushed to the outer gates. They already knew what the bell had meant.

 

The Herald was back.

 


	8. Ilensul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A piece I had commissioned by @sunshinemage on tumblr - a good likeness of Ilensul!


	9. Back at Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for those who are sensitive: Plenty of self esteem and body issues in this chapter, giving a slightly more in depth look at how Ilensul regards himself. This chapter is mainly about that, and a little about Cullen as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but I felt it stood best by itself, given the content.

A scowl meets Ilensul's gaze as he stared into the mirror. In the privacy of his little cabin, he frowned at the image he saw. Robes, tunic, and breeches had been peeled away, leaving the little elf in only his smalls, his long braid of chocolate brown hair unwoven so that the thick locks hung to his rear in a mass of waves.

 

One slender hand slid slowly across his slim chest, and down his belly, hip turning slightly as his eyes remained fixed on his own reflection. Ilensul wasn't a large man, even for an elf; he noticeably lacked the bigger muscles most men gained from labor or fighting. But he did have a little definition, even if he lacked... volume.

 

What was it then? Full lips tugged down into a deeper frown as he tried to see what was so wrong with him. His critical mind found flaw; his lips were too full, his face too young, his body too feminine with his round hips and buttocks, his cock too small. Okay, so Cullen couldn't have known about that last bit, he'd never seen Ilensul naked, but even so, Ilen was sure that the man would be able to tell.

 

Ilen didn't understand. Cullen had seemed so happy when Ilen had returned from Val Royeaux early in the day. He'd practically bounded to the gates, reminding the elf for all the world of an excited mabari, like everyone teased Fereldens about. He smiled sadly at the still fresh memory. The Commander reaching up to grasp him about his waist, and help him down from the back of his fiery little mare. Taking his pack and staff so that he didn't have to carry it after his ride. The taller man smiling kindly as he filled him in on what had happened in Haven during his absence while they walked to the Chantry to tell everyone about what had happened in Orlais. It had _seemed_ like the Commander had missed him. That he was happy to see _him_ and not just 'The Herald'.

 

_'I'm sorry, Herald. I hope for your friendship, but cannot offer more.'_ The conversation that had taken place after that Chantry meeting had repeated itself in his mind for hours now,  _'Is it because I'm a man? I didn't realize...' 'O-oh no, Herald. It's not that. It's just... I can't.' 'I... I understand. Don't worry Commander. I won't bring it up again. I hope we can be friends too.'_ A reminder, he told himself. He would repeat it to himself as often as necessary. It hurt, as the words came to him again, hearing them in his mind in the Commander's soft, almost gentle voice. Ilen's dark eyes squinted a little as he forced tears back for the moment. He had no right to cry over it. The Commander had been kind in his rejection. Kinder than Ilen deserved.

 

What had he been thinking anyway? That someone like Cullen might actually want someone like  _him_ ? A mage. A knife-ear. A  _slave_ . He was someone that Cullen pitied, at best. He remembered seeing it in the Commander's eyes from time to time, when Leliana or Josephine would point something from his past out, using it to explain the things Ilen knew, or what he was used to.

 

Of course Cullen wouldn't find any interest in him. Cullen was strong. Even after the things he'd told Ilen, about the way he used to be, if only a little bit... he was still honorable. He was doing what he could to make amends for the things he'd done wrong in his life. He was courageous. Noble. Someone to be respected. And he was gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted.

 

And what was Ilen? Some pathetic, little knife-eared slave who'd failed in his responsibility to protect his master and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. A little meek thing that could hardly stand up for himself, even when people hurt him, who could hardly tell the sharp end of a sword from the handle. A little Dalish savage, ignorant of all of the important people and events around him.

 

Sniffing loudly, Ilen ground the heels of his hands against his burning eyes, trying to rub away the tears that had begun coursing down his cheeks. But unbidden they kept falling, streaking across skin that was growing hot with his pent up emotions. His embarrassment. His cheeks burned with the humiliation of rejection, even if he knew that it had been coming. 

 

Lord Seeker Lucius had been right. He couldn't even be called a 'rabbit' like other Dalish. He was no more than a mouse. Terrified of his own shadow, trying to hide whenever he could. He was not courageous. He was a coward. He wasn't worthy of what he desired, from anyone.

 

It was that final thought that finally had Ilen's hands falling from covering his face, using his fingers to wipe the tears away as he drew a shuddering breath. He wasn't worthy, and he never would be, but he could take the only small steps he could that would make him almost there. It never worked fully, but it was as close as he could get.

 

Going to his washstand, Ilen scrubbed his face with cold water to rinse away the tears and cool his skin before he found a tunic and trousers, both made of thick wool, and pulled on his cloak. There was always something going on in the infirmary; between the dangers of scouting trips, refugees, colds and stomach bugs, there were always patients there. He would spend his night healing, with magic until he could not any longer, and then with potions, salves, and poultices. Sleep wouldn't come to him this night anyway, there was no reason for him to remain useless.

 

– ** – ** –

 

Dawn seemed to come too early. With a deep, jaw-popping yawn, Cullen sat up on his cot, swinging his legs around so that his bare feet touched down on the cool floorboards of his hut, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and to rub his face with his hands.

 

It had taken a long time to fall asleep, and though he was tired, even now he wished he hadn't. His dreams since Kinloch had never been pleasant things. The horrors he'd seen there would probably be forever etched into his memory. But they were at least now familiar, if still heart-stopping and terrifying. But he hadn't found himself in that Fade version of the tower. He'd been in a bed. Soft and luxurious, with the gentle golden glow of candlelight around him. This time, it hadn't been demons screeching at him, or abominations killing his friends, or the screams of innocents as they were sacrificed for not allying with Uldred.

 

It had been Ilen. Or rather, a demon wearing Ilen's face. And it had been  _so real_ . The details had been so accurate. The shade of the vallaslin. The silky smooth cheeks. The dark eyes that had gazed up at him with such... gentle longing. And by the Maker, Cullen had almost given in. He had wanted to. To kiss the soft smile on those pink lips. To hold Ilen against him, to feel the elf pressed tightly against his body.

 

At the memory, Cullen felt his groin tighten, the painfully hard erection he'd woken with twitching and straining. And not for the last time did he thank the Maker that demons couldn't get tones right. That they couldn't really imitate that accent of Ilen's, that strange mixture of Starkhaven brogue and Tevinter lilt. They couldn't mimic the tenderness in the elf's voice.

 

Cullen stood quickly, the backs of his knees knocking against his cot's frame as he went to his washstand. As had happened too many times over the previous two months, he felt unclean. The elf was too good, too gentle, too sweet. And Cullen's thoughts were too impure for someone so... unblemished. He needed the cold water now, to give him clarity, to wash away the traitorous thoughts and dreams of someone he didn't deserve.

 

As he wiped across his skin with the cold, wet rag, he knew with more certainty that he'd done the right thing, turning Ilen down. The dream had been proof enough of that. Everything Cullen touched, he broke. And he wouldn't, couldn't bring himself to be what broke Ilensul. Cullen couldn't let himself taint something that pure.

 

Denying Ilen had been one of the hardest things Cullen had ever done. Harder than leaving his family all those years ago. Harder than his templar training. Harder than facing what he'd done, what he'd become in Kirkwall.

 

Seeing the hurt in those precious, dark eyes had felt like a sword going through him. He'd almost hoped that Ilen would flare in anger, it would have been no less than he'd deserve. It would be easier if Ilen hated him. He'd silently begged, prayed that Ilen would lash out, have a tantrum, something. Anything to punish Cullen as he deserved for having hurt him.

 

But he knew Ilen. He understood. The elf would never hate him for something like that. He respected Cullen too much for that, even if the Commander felt he hadn't earned it.

 

– ** – ** –

 

He hadn't anticipated actually seeing Ilen so soon. But after he'd left his little hut, situated near the training grounds, he'd only gone a few steps when he saw the elf emerging from the infirmary, and his breath had caught at the sight of him. Even looking as exhausted as he did, Ilensul was one of the most beautiful people Cullen had ever seen. And somehow, he seemed even more so now.

 

The long, thick hair that Cullen's hands had plunged into in his dreams was loose, free of its usual plait, and shining gloriously in the early morning sun. His simple tunic and trousers were rumpled from being up all night, but the earthy browns and greens complimented the Dalish elf.

 

Cullen's heart tightened in his chest as he watched in silence, as Ilen braved the cold, and pulled off his cloak to drape it over the shoulders of a young Chantry Sister who had exited the infirmary after him. The Commander watched, drinking in the sight of the youthful Herald of Andraste as he turned his gentle, bright smile to the young lady, and gave her his arm to lean on. The elf walked on his bare feet across the snow, his steps slow and measured to keep in pace with the Sister, who was recovering from a twisted or sprained ankle perhaps, to judge by her limp.

 

“Cullen?” The sudden voice off to his left startled the man so badly he visibly jumped, thankful that he'd had nothing in his hands, since he would have surely dropped it.

 

“Cassandra!” The Commander cursed silently at the startled rise of his own voice, hastily clearing his throat as he turned to face her, gloved hands fiddling nervously with the edge of his vambraces. “I, ah, What... what can I do for you Cassandra? You're up early.”

 

The Seeker he faced now wrinkled her brow slightly as she studied his face, steely eyes bearing down on him so long and so hard that he felt blood rush to his ears, threatening to send a flush over his face.

 

Whatever it was she was looking for however seemed to be missing... or perhaps just as she expected it to be... whatever it was. She sniffed instead, “I'm always up this early. Come, I have more to discuss with you about our journey to Val Royeaux, and the templars we saw there. We shall talk while we break our fast.” While one might think that it was more of an offer to share a meal and an important conversation, it was clearly an order – a detail that Cullen picked up, of course. While he'd only known Cassandra for roughly half a year, he'd already picked up on a number of her habits... ordering was just one of them.

 

As they sat in a corner of Haven's only tavern, plates of eggs, cheese, and bread before them, and mugs of tea warming their hands, Cassandra finally began, “While the Herald seems to be more inclined to meet with the mages, with the Grand Enchanter's personal invitation, I am not prepared to write the templars off completely. Lord Seeker Lucius may not be interested in assisting, but I know there must be those that doubt him. We saw one right there in Val Royeaux. We just need to find out where they are, and have Leliana's people somehow spread word...”

 


	10. After the Storm Coast

Ilen groaned lowly, stars dancing behind his eyes as he struggled to prop himself up in the mud. Rain still splattering on his now bruised and bloodied face, it took near all of his faculties to focus again. The backhand had been harder than he'd anticipated, almost hurting more than the punches he had taken moments earlier. Panting, he shook his head, flicking away drops of water and blood. He had to get back up. He had to.

 

His hand slid as he pushed himself up in the mud, gritting his teeth as his staff dug in, and his feet found purchase again. It was hard to focus now; fighting a duel against the leader of the 'Blades of Hessarian' was definitely a  **bad** idea. It was stupid. He was stupid. He was a little elf mage, and this hulking man was a warrior, tried and true. Truly, what hope did Ilen have against someone like that?

 

But he didn't let go of that sliver of hope. It was better this way. Better that they'd come to the Blades' fort with the 'Mercy's Crest' bright and brilliant around his neck. After finding that first band of Inquisition scouts murdered, Ilen simply couldn't risk it. There were more than thirty members of this militia all watching the duel between their leader and the so-called 'Herald of Andraste', and there were probably more hidden nearby and scattered throughout the Storm Coast that would just attack they or their men again.

 

Far better for him to have the tar beaten out of him, or even to die, than to gamble with the lives of Sera, Varric, and Cassandra – not to mention the other Inquisition scouts and soldiers already stationed back at the camp.

 

“Pah!” The warrior's hand shot out again, fingers closing around the elf's slender neck as he hauled him up and off of his bare feet, “Our Lady would never choose some weak, pathetic little creature,” Ilen squirmed in the man's grip, his staff clattering to the ground as both of the elf's slender hands scratched and clawed at the militia leader's wrist, delicate fingers scrabbling to try and pry the fingers that squeezed tighter and tighter. Within a moment it seemed, Ilen had trouble getting air, his breath wheezing and raspy.

 

The edges of Ilen's vision darkened as his world suddenly narrowed. So quickly it seemed, he forgot about the cold rain that still fell, and the militia-men that watched with eagerness. He could barely hear the cries of Sera and Cassandra, Varric's lower rumble not even sensible. A strangled gulping noise escaped the elf as he struggled, wriggling in the human's grip like a worm on a hook. He had to concentrate. He had to make this count. Precious seconds ticked by that he could not draw more breath. It was now or never.

 

Gripping tightly onto the man's wrist, Ilen's teeth clenched as sparks light from his fingertips, electricity shooting up the muscled arm of the warrior. Skin to skin with his adversary, Ilen could feel the static raising his hair slightly, and the uncomfortable burn as the shock made its way through the man and down from Ilen's neck. But it was enough. Startled perhaps more than pained, but the militia leader's hand clenched harder and then his fingers suddenly straightened, allowing the elf to drop to the muddy ground with a splash.

 

Without giving another moment to doubt himself, Ilen's hand reached out, glowing a dim yellow as light and fog rippled before him, quickly coalescing into the shape of a fist. The burst of magic dove to the warrior, smashing directly into his face, and shoving him back. The ethereal fist reared back and did it again, blood spurting from the human's mouth. And then again. And again. Over and over it hit Ilen's opponent, forcing him to the ground, smashing into his face in numerous, rapid assaults, not giving pause for breath or recuperation.

 

It was only when three sets of hands yanked back on his shoulders did that ghostly fist stop its attack, dissipating in a mere moment as Sera, Varric, and Cassandra pulled him rather physically back to the real world, straining it seemed to get him back under control. The world came back into focus with the sounds of their panting breath, the rain that continued to fall, and the murmuring of the militia somewhere unseen behind them.

 

“Maker Birdy,” Varric's new nickname still fell pleasantly on Ilensul's ears, “Remind me not to piss you off...” Sera and Cassandra backed off, but the dwarf's strong hands remained on his shoulders, and with little difficulty, he managed to turn the elf towards him. Shaken and hurting, Ilen could do little but move as he was so gently bade, the shorter man's gray-blue eyes soft and understanding. “C'mon...” Varric soothed with a small smile, “Let's get you back to camp so you can take care of...” he paused to wave a hand at Ilen's face, “This mess. I gotta tell ya Birdy, you look like shit.”

 

Ilen huffed a few silent chuckles as he let the dwarf assist him to his feet, a painful smile spreading across his face, “I rather feel like shit, if I'm honest,” he admitted, voice scratchy and hoarse after the treatment his neck had received minutes before.

 

Luckily for him, Cassandra stepped close a moment later, “The Blades of Hessarian have recognized your authority Herald,” her voice was stiff from stress and surely some disapproval, but she continued, “They have 'officially' pledged their service to the Inquisition, and you, as Andraste's Herald. We should send others then as... liaisons.” Without waiting, the warrior stooped and scooped Ilensul up into her strong arms, with one beneath his knees, and the other behind his back. To the little mage's protests however, she only frowned, “You must get back to camp to rest and heal. Allowing you to walk there is... ill-advised. And would take far too long.”

 

“What she means is – she's more worried than she's letting on, and she wants to mother-hen you,” Varric helpfully supplied, grinning at the Seeker's answering scowl.

 

Unable to fight the 'mothering', as it were, Ilen only gave a weak, drowsy smile, “That's what I figured. I always thought Cassandra was more maternal than she wanted anyone to know.”

 

Cassandra's eyes merely rolled, “Ugh.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

Cullen glowered as menacingly as he could at the dwarf as he approached, fists clenched at his side as he made his way away from the Chantry. Varric had been with Ilensul during this last 'adventure', and with the state the elf had returned to Haven in, Cullen wanted answers.

 

“What the hell happened, dwarf?” It was all the Commander could do to keep a growl from his lips.

 

Varric however seemed unperturbed by the outburst, “Well good afternoon Curly. Lovely day we're having isn't it? Oh my trip? Well, it was rougher than we'd expected, but I'm just glad we got back in one piece, thanks for asking!” Crouching beside the fire nearest to his 'quarters' (if one could call the large tent he stayed in 'quarters' at that), Varric reached out to warm his hands by the flames, keeping his gaze deliberately away.

 

Cullen snorted, arms crossing in front of his armored chest, “You know exactly what I mean 'Master Tethras', so I'd appreciate it if you didn't play dumb. Why has Ile—the Herald returned looking and acting the way he has? Bruised and battered, and hardly a word? He didn't even give his own report, just leaned against Cassandra.” The Commander tried to sound angry, gruff, uncaring, more annoyed at the change in routine than he was about the Herald's state.

 

But the man never was a good liar. The shock of seeing Ilen the way he was, was still fresh, and worry gnawed at the former-Templar. Ilen's pretty face bore dark bruises, under his eyes and across his nose, along his smooth jaw. The elegant neck that Cullen had admired perhaps too many times also bore similar discoloration, purple welts on either side of the elf's windpipe. His full lower lip was still split, scabbed over and slightly swollen. And then even more troublesome was the smaller man's listlessness. He'd hardly looked up while Cassandra had given her report of what had happened at the Storm Coast. Meeting and recruiting The Bull's Chargers, finding the Inquisition scouts dead, fighting against the leader of the Blades of Hessarian. There was no anger, no pride, just a stark show of fear hidden deep in those dark eyes.

 

“We can't force him to 'be better', Curly,” Varric interrupted Cullen's recollections, “We got him to heal his broken nose, and his broken jaw, and to put poultices on the various other injuries. But that was it. Said he was fine, and insisted on healing injured Chargers instead. Many things we can pressure, cajole, and argue, but I've yet to convince a healer to take better care for themselves.” The dwarf shook his head with a huff, “Believe me, I tried for almost ten years...”

 

Cullen looked away for a moment, frowning at the reminder of the apostate from Kirkwall, from Kinloch. Clearing his throat, the Commander shifted uneasily on his feet, “Well uh... still. Perhaps we should look into assigning healers to the permanent camps to avoid this in the future. Maybe he'll listen to them.”

 

“Ha!” Varric shook his head again and smirked, “The day I see a real healer like him take health advice, I'll eat my hat. Or I would, if I had one. But not a bad idea anyway. Might wanna bring that up in your little council meeting though as opposed to telling the _dwarf_ about needing healers.” Rubbing his hands together once more, he stood up straight again, crossing his own arms, “So was that it? Just came to demand to know why I didn't return your Herald as pretty as I found him?” The dwarf's eyes twinkled perhaps a little too mischievously, giving Cullen the distinct impression that he knew far more than he ought.

 

Unbidden, color flooded the Commander's face and he reached up to rub the back of his neck nervously, “Maker's breath Varric! Stop that! The Herald is an important part of the Inquisition. I need to know whether or not he'll be able to... to... fulfill his purpose. If he comes back sullen and injured, he won't be able to go out there and seal rifts, will he?” Excuses perhaps to explain his own concern, but they were technically true as well. And far to say than risk anything more personal. He didn't need to have the dwarf use the baring of his heart for some silly novel. “Just... try to get him to be more careful next time, alright?”

 

Varric snorted, but kept the rest of his opinions to himself, at least for now, “Yea yea, Curly. I get it. I'll nag.” He scoffed as he waved the Commander away, but couldn't help but grin as he called after him, “But I expect at least a few rounds for having to act as nursemaid in your stead!”

 

– ** – ** –

 

After three days back at Haven, and a couple of poultices, Ilen bruises were finally starting to fade, bit by bit. Not that the elf minded being battered up. Physical pain was something perhaps all too familiar to the former slave, an almost welcome feeling. Despite the modesty of Haven and his quarters there, it was hard to escape the feeling that he ought to have things worse than he did. He had private quarters, a private bath when he wanted it. He could be as alone or with as much company as he might want, as warm or cool as he wanted, as hungry or full as he wanted. It wasn't just the freedom of movement that was taking some getting used to, but the freedom of choice.

 

An explanation then, for his choice to allow most of his bruises to heal naturally. He'd healed enough so that there wouldn't be permanent damage – his jaw was still aligned correctly, and his nose would not be crooked. But beyond that, he felt the rest would be a waste of magic. Magic that could be turned to the better purpose of healing various members of The Bull's Chargers, who'd suffered some wounds on the Storm Coast as well. They'd joined the Inquisition after that fight, and as such, deserved just as much care or more than he did.

 

He was after all, simply a tool. Though he'd already believed that, hearing Cullen say so when he was speaking with Varric only confirmed the notion, reinforcing the elf's bias against himself. Varric had seemed worried when he realized that Ilen had overheard the conversation, and the elf's calm expression had done little to assuage him, but at least he didn't try to explain anything.

 

With the conversation still in Ilen's mind, he wandered the snowy grounds of Haven with little direction. This was to be a 'rest' period, so Cassandra had said. He still had a Grey Warden to look into, as a promise to Leliana, and that invitation to Redcliffe to follow up on, but none of those things should happen while he was still 'banged up', as it were. It wouldn't do for Ilen to appear wounded at such times, when he was needed to seem confident and strong.

 

And so it was that after three days of recovery, Ilen had finally come around to catching up with the newest member of his 'Inner Circle', as Varric lovingly called it. The Iron Bull. A giant of Qunari, he was even larger than the ones that Ilen had seen in Tevinter and Seheron. Tall and broad as the bulls he was named after, it was little wonder why he'd offered himself as a bodyguard—an offer that even Cassandra thought prudent. Bull's large body could probably block several Ilensuls from view.

 

He approached the Qunari slowly, a small but friendly smile on his lips, head nodding forward just slightly in greeting, “Settling in?” he queried as he drew closer. The Iron Bull and his Chargers had set up their tents outside of the inner Haven walls, near the blacksmith and in viewing of the training grounds. Not that they remained there, of course. On this afternoon, it was only Bull and his lieutenant, Krem, who remained 'home', the rest of the mercenary group holing up in Haven's tavern to while away the hours in comfort until they were needed. 

 

Bull cocked his head towards the little elf, turning a little so that his one blue eye could fix more firmly on him, “Yea, I guess you could say that. Smaller operation here than I'd thought, but you're getting there, that's for sure.” He rolled a muscular shoulder, glancing over to the training grounds where recruits sparred under Cullen's watchful eye. “They've got good form,” with a jerk of his pointed chin, Bull indicated the new soldiers, “Cullen's putting his templar training to good use.”

 

Ilen's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, looking over his shoulder momentarily to where Bull was looking, and then turned back to the Qunari, “Did Cullen tell you he was a templar? He's not wearing the armor...” While Ilen still didn't know too much about templars, other than to avoid them, he knew what the standard issue templar armor looked like.

 

Bull just smirked, “He didn't have to. Might not be a templar shield, but it's a templar holding it,” he explained, “He angles the shield just a bit down,” The Bull held out his arm to demonstrate with an imaginary shield, “Helps to direct fire or acid away, so it doesn't spray right into your face. Qunari learn the same thing when we train to fight Tevinter mages. Your templar's doing good work.”

 

With another somewhat wistful look back at Cullen, Ilen nodded, “Yes... yes he is.” Even with the hurt he'd felt with Cullen's rejection, he had to agree with the mercenary. Cullen  _was_ doing a great job, teaching these young, green men and women how to fight and defend themselves and others.

 

This time, it was Bull's turn to follow a gaze, and his full, grey lips quirked slightly, “Got it bad, don't you Boss?” As Ilen jerked back to face him, startled and pink cheeked in embarrassment, the Qunari only chuckled good-naturedly, “Not that there's anything wrong with that! If you're into that giant puppy thing he's got going on.”

 

The elf's large brown eyes turned downward for a moment, focusing his gaze on Bull's boots before he looked back up, a rueful half-smile on his face, “I suppose I do. But it's neither here nor there anymore,” one feather pauldron lifted with his half-shrug. The pain of being rebuffed was still there, but it was slowly dulling into the ache of loneliness that Ilen was more than familiar with. Instead of lingering on those dark thoughts however, Ilen forced his lips into a wider, fuller smile, “But I didn't come to talk about my love-life, or lack thereof. How are the Chargers finding things? Is there anything you or your men need? More space, more blankets, new gear?”

 

Bull's inscrutable gaze bore down on Ilen for a long moment in silence before he shook his massive horns, “Naw, we got just about everything we need. Plenty of space since no one else bunks out here. Plenty of food with the soldiers, plus some. And there's plenty of booze at the tavern. We're makin' out alright.”

 

Ilen's smile widened even more, “I'm glad to hear it. Don't hesitate to ask Threnn for supplies if you need. You're as much part of this as anyone else now,” The elf's bare feet shifted, leaning away to give the indication that he would be leaving, “Be ready though – I'll be coming for you by the end of the week. Cassandra wants the biggest wall she can find between me and the mages in Redcliffe,” she'd been rather insistent on Bull accompanying Ilen in fact, much to the elf's curiosity.

 

Bull however only laughed, “Can do Boss, can do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I have trouble writing fight scenes, though I am trying to get better. Hopefully, future ones will go more smoothly! Thanks for reading!


	11. A Magister? In Ferelden?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more Hinterlands fun, finding a Warden, and arriving at Redcliffe!

The Iron Bull it turned out was just what Ilensul's little 'adventuring party' needed. Alongside Seeker Cassandra and her shield, not a single enemy managed to get remotely close to Varric, Solas, or the Herald in the numerable skirmishes that plagued them from Haven to the Inquisition's lakeside camp in the Hinterlands. He was skilled with the enormous axe he wielded of course, and had the size and strength to use it to its best effect, but more important were his observational skills. No matter how stealthy the attacker, not a single rogue found it possible to slip beneath his one-eyed gaze to get to softer targets.

 

“Well they say that when you lose one sense, the others get twice as good to make up for it. Blind men hearing pin drops, and all that,” Bull posed as they sat around the fire at the lakeside camp, eating bowls of soup made from rations. It wasn't the tastiest of meals, but the meat and root vegetables were warm and hearty at least. “I lost one eye, so I figure just got... fifty percent more to the rest right?”

 

Varric laughed, and Ilen cracked a smile, chuckling softly, “I'm not sure that's exactly how it works The Iron Bull, but I won't argue that you're perceptive. And I'm quite grateful for it.”

 

Cassandra, while not engaging so much in silly speculations, had to agree, “Indeed. You've proven a valuable ally.” Ilen, Solas, and Varric raised their eyebrows, glancing at each other. From the Seeker, that was a rather high compliment. It wasn't so much that she expected the worst out of every soldier and recruit, but she recognized true talent when she saw it. Cassandra's praise was always rare, but typically well deserved.

 

Bull seemed to know that of course, despite how little time he'd known her. And so he responded in kind, “Well, that was some solid work back there, Seeker. The way you backhanded that guy with your shield and then damn near chopped him in half? Damn!” The Qunari took a deep breath, letting it out between his teeth in a slightly hissing sigh as his eye turned slightly dreamy, “Hey, are you as turned on as I am right now?”

 

The Seeker however didn't seem to know how to answer that, clearly not expecting the conversation to turn in _that_ direction. Her face slowly turned red, visible even in the orange firelight, and she sputtered, coughing a little on her stew, “Am I _what_?” She managed to garble, using one hand to hit slightly against her upper chest to stop choking.

 

Bull creaked a knowing grin, especially as he saw the others covering their mouths, trying to restrain chuckles, “Ah, that's probably impossible anyway.” Somehow, the Qunari's beaming smile managed to grow as Varric lost his self-control and cackled.

 

Cassandra sneered, one side of her upper lip drawing upward, “Ugh,” she finally grunted in disgust, and leaned forward to pour the small remainder of her stew back into the pot, standing as she dropped her wooden bowl into a nearby bucket, “Just for that, you can take my watch Iron Bull. Enjoy.” And with a haughty sniff, she walked off towards the tent she managed to get to herself. There was at least some benefit of being the only woman in the group.

 

At least Bull didn't seem to mind. He just laughed merrily and shrugged his large shoulders, “Worth it just to see the look on her face! Gotta get her to lighten up sometime. All that tension... doesn't do anyone any good.” For a moment he stared down in the direction the Seeker had walked, giving something of a wistful sigh. “Maybe someday huh?”

 

Coming down from his laughing fit, Varric wiped his eyes, “I wouldn't count on it Tiny. The woman's repression wrapped up in religion and sprinkled with uptight noble upbringing. Even if you could get her to let loose, she's wound up so tight, she'd probably kill you in the process.”

 

The Qunari's grin turned positively feral, “Well that's the fun of it ain't it? At least I'd die with a smile on my face!”

 

That it seemed, was the cue for Solas, who rolled his eyes as he set his own empty bowl in the 'dish bucket' and stood, reaching down to smooth his robe before glancing at Ilensul, “We should get to sleep, da'len. Morning will come quickly, and we've a Warden to hunt down before the day is done.” Much like a stern father, the tall elf gave the smaller one a pointed look before he turned and went to the tent the two elves shared. It had long been decided by all of those who traveled together that Ilensul was not to take watches; he was as observant as any of them, with rather sensitive elven hearing, but as their only dedicated healer, it was best for him to be well rested, and at full mana when they set off on any given day.

 

Ilen turned to watch Solas for a moment until he disappeared through the tent flap, surprised when he turned back to face the knowing looks of Varric and Bull. “What?”

 

“Just wondering if any of us are going to get sleep tonight, that's all Boss.” A teasing twinkle glittered in Bull's one eye. “I've woken you two up in the mornings, I've seen it. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. Can't vouch for the dwarf though.” And one large elbow nudged Varric, who simply shoved back and wrinkled his nose.

 

It had quickly been discovered, through their traipsing all over the Hinterlands and the paths to and from Haven, that without a real bed – a mattress, covers, pillows, and four solid walls – Ilensul ended up needing... comfort to sleep. On the hard ground, in the chill of the night, nightmares plagued the former-slave. Memories, both accurate and heavily exaggerated by his sleepy mind, haunted him, his years in Master Caius' service, the cruelty of his first master still remembered far too well. The comfort he needed wasn't sexual by any means, and so during most nights of their travels, he slept curled snugly within Solas' embrace, where the older, more experienced mage could more strongly protect the little Herald's dreams, or on occasion, under the heavy arm of the Lady Seeker, whose physical strength soothed his anxious trembling when he woke in the night.

 

And so Ilen wrinkled his nose at Bull as well, his pointed ears turning red with embarrassment, “It's not like that!” But Bull's smile only grew to cheshire proportions.

 

“The gentleman protests too much, me thinks!”

 

“Ugh!” Mimicking Cassandra's signature grunt of disgust, Ilen stood up and rather flounced to his tent, Bull and Varric's amused laughter following behind him. He knew they were only teasing to make light of the situation, but even so, it was a sensitive topic for him. The elf thought that he shouldn't need it, the comfort of Solas' embrace when he slept. Even if it was only when they were on the road and he managed in Haven, he felt he should be able to manage everywhere. How was he supposed to be the so-called leader if he couldn't even camp without using another party member as a teddy bear to keep away the monsters in the night?

 

His dark thoughts did at least ease as he opened the tent and climbed in, seeing Solas already down to his tunic and wool breeches, laying on one side of their extra wide bedroll. While obviously the other elf was not asleep yet, he was on his way, and got even closer to it after Ilen stripped down to a similar state of dress and crawled in beside him, spreading their blankets over them. Automatically, Solas turned to him and reached out, drawing the smaller man into the firm embrace of his long arms.

 

“There's nothing to be ashamed of, having another guard your dreams,” he quietly stated, murmuring against Ilen's soft hair. Had the pair been anyone but who they were, it would have perhaps been alarmingly intimate. But Solas and Ilen were a rather intimate pair; the older elf felt a kinship with the younger that he didn't explain, but his protectiveness of Ilen was at least quite clear.

 

“I know, just...” grumbling a little, Ilen snuggled closer, pressing his face into the soft wool that covered Solas' chest.

 

“Get some sleep, da'len. You'll feel better about it in the morning.” Thankfully for both of them, it only took a few strokes of Solas' hand over Ilen's hair to convince him of that. Quickly enough, both elves fell asleep, blissfully peaceful for the night.

 

– ** – ** –

 

A good night's sleep turned out to be precisely what was needed. The Warden that Leliana had mentioned to Ilensul when he'd returned from Val Royeaux hadn't been particularly difficult to find; the spies and scouts employed by the Inquisition were nothing if not accurate in their reports. But the situation that the Herald's party walked into when they approached the small cabin ended up requiring both their reflexes and their strength.

 

Unfortunately, even after the bandits that attacked them upon their arrival were dealt with, the Warden – Gordon Blackwall – could give them little information about the rest of the Grey Warden order. Recruiting on his own, a difficult task given the lack of Blight in the country, had him with little correspondence with others of his order. He'd recruit likely candidates he said, and send them to Amaranthine to meet up with the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and see about joining officially. The recruiter himself didn't tag along.

 

At least the trip didn't leave the Inquisition entirely empty-handed however; in light of the events, and the mysterious disappearance of the other Wardens, Blackwall deigned to join them, offering his sword arm, and his shield for the cause. “We'll find whoever killed the Divine,” he promised, before adding in a far more sinister tone, “They owe us some answers.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

And so the Herald of Andraste's party was growing rather large indeed as they began the journey to Redcliffe. Iron Bull, Cassandra, and Blackwall together evened out the 'ranged' group of Solas, Varric, and Ilensul himself, and it worked out to their advantage. More people were able to fight alongside each other as they cleared their way through the Witchwood, clearing apostate camps and templar groups alike. Best to do it like this, Ilensul realized, when at least four of the party members – namely himself, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas – were already accustomed to battling together, giving the other two a chance to more easily integrate themselves, and allowing them to study their companions' fighting habits without risking themselves as much.

 

He was just distracted by these thoughts, he tried to tell himself. That's why the strange rift in front of Redcliffe's gates affected him so strangely. Why he couldn't stop looking at the strange glowing circles it cast, where some things sped up, and others slowed down. Why he couldn't help but wonder just why this seemed so foreign, and yet so familiar at the same time. Familiar? It was strange to say the least – no one had ever seen something like this before, how could it be familiar? He felt unsteady and ill-at-ease. “What... was that?” Ilensul finally managed to choke out, glancing over his shoulder, casting his eyes hopefully to Solas. The other elf had the most knowledge about these rifts after all, with everything to do with the Fade.

 

Unfortunately, Solas shook his head slowly, “I've never seen anything like it. It seemed as if the rift affected time around itself. It's very mysterious... we must be cautious.” Further comments were cut off, as the gate guard who'd tried to warn them away came running up, calling praise to the Maker, and ordering the great iron gate to open.

 

Ilen frowned slightly but with a jerk of his head, walked forward to lead his group inside. Thankfully, there was an Inquisition scout within a few yards of the stone wall, and the man perked up when he saw who strode through. Hurrying forward, he nodded his head respectfully in greeting, but didn't waste time.

 

“We spread word that the Inquisition was coming... but you should know that no one here was expecting us.” The scout looked discomfited by the notion.

 

“No one?” Ilen questioned, one eyebrow raising as his head cocked curiously, “Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

 

The man only sighed and shrugged, “If she was, she hasn't told anyone,” the corner of his mouth tugged a little, and then he gestured towards the town proper, “We've arranged for use of the tavern for negotiations.” Almost as soon as the scout finished speaking, a young elf in mage's robes hurried up to them, somewhat out of breath.

 

“Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies!” His cultured voice seemed out of place in a way that Ilensul couldn't exactly pinpoint, and the Herald's dark eyes glanced over the mage with a measure of scrutiny that he didn't bother to hide. The lad hardly looked more than twenty or so. Young and soft... naive. The young elf continued though, “Magister Alexius is in charge now, but he hasn't yet arrived. He's expected shortly. You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.” He spoke in something of a rush, bowing out of a potential conversation before Ilen even had a chance to question.

 

Just as well, as the information given to him had Ilen reeling. Alexius? Here? Whatever was he doing here of all places? Alexius had always shown disapproval of how mages were treated in the south, not entirely because of what would have happened to his son Felix in such a place. Felix was a bright young man, and a nice person, but his magical ability was rather limited. By nature, he possessed only a little, though Alexius had loved his child regardless. In the south however, Felix wouldn't have gotten the education to control his unimpressive power, but would have been made Tranquil. The very notion made Alexius rather critical.

 

But just why Alexius would come to Ferelden, Ilen hadn't a clue. While the man disapproved of southern Circles, him coming all this way to assist the mage rebels seemed... rather out of character. And then of course, was the matter of the strange rift they'd seen. Did that mean that Alexius had gotten the magic to work? There were too many questions now, both personal and academic, and now the strange, nervous sensation was felt all through Ilen's body, unable to shake it.

 

“Herald?” It was Cassandra who finally stepped forward, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently, and brought his mind back to the present. “Are you alright?”

 

Ilen jerked slightly, and gave a soft snort, shaking his head, “Not really. I... I have much to think about, and not enough time to think on it,” he paused, unsure if he wanted to explain, “We should look around town, maybe see if we can talk to a few people and find out what's going on before we head to the tavern. I'm quite curious to find out what a Magister is doing here, in charge.” He glanced up at the Seeker, “I know the mages here are from all over, Free Marches, Ferelden, Orlais... but I was under the assumption that even the mages here were suspicious of Tevinters. I find it odd that they would put one in charge.” Of course, he knew that Alexius wasn't like most other Magisters, but even so.

 

Cassandra nodded grimly, “It is odd, I'll admit. While a few mages here and there exalted Tevinter – childishly romanticizing the notion of mage freedom without understanding all of what goes on there – the majority were as scared and suspicious of Tevinters as the common folk are. Something strange is afoot here.”

 

With a sigh, Ilen had to agree, and they pressed onward and into town. The path was still long before they got there, and as they walked, Varric managed to wheedle his way beside Ilen. Tucking his thumbs beneath the straps of his pack, he looked upward, falling in step next to the elf. “So... wanna tell me about Magister Alexius?” Right to the point, it seemed.

 

Ilen had at least the decency to startle, and glance uneasily to the dwarf, “How'd you know?”

 

Varric smirked a little sadly, “I'm friends with Fenris remember? He always got this look whenever a Magister that he knew – master or not – was mentioned, whether from us reading letters, or hearing news. This moment that his eyes would glaze and his shoulders would go stiff. Didn't last long, a second or so at most, but it was there.” His thick eyebrows furrowed, giving away his concern, “You had the same look there, for just a second. So... spill. It'll make you feel better.”

 

The elf stayed quiet for a moment, thinking it over. They'd find out anyway. “I knew him. Or rather, my master knew him, I suppose,” Ilen kept his voice soft, not trusting that there weren't ears everywhere, “They worked together on occasion, and I often ran books and notes between their homes for them. Occasionally, Magister Alexius would ask me to scribe for him. Once, he tried to have me teach his son healing magic, though Felix never did really get the hang of it.”

 

He sighed, and shook his head, long braid swaying behind him. “There are many questions now, and I haven't the foggiest idea of where to begin,” Ilen continued, pausing once more to bite his lower lip, “I have no idea of any reason he'd be here at all, much less leading the mages here. He'd never held any real interest in the south, and certainly wouldn't have picked Ferelden as his first choice in destination for holiday. And the magic in that rift... well, it raises more questions still.”

 

Varric only nodded along – the dwarf probably wouldn't push about the strange magic, not being his area of expertise for obvious reasons.

 

“I'm nervous,” Ilen admitted as they continued along, his hands clasping together in front of him to let his fingers tangle together, “Seeing someone from... from before. And wondering just what happened that would drive him this far south. It must have been something bad, I just know it.” The truth of the matter was, Ilen hadn't seen Alexius very much in the past couple of years. His research with Master Paulus had stuttered down to a crawl.

 

“I'd be worried if you weren't Birdy,” Varric reached over to pat Ilen's arm with his meaty hand as he reassured him, “And don't you worry about Vints being here either. No one's going to pick you up again. I've got more than enough experience dealing with slavers.”

 

Ilen nodded absently, letting the matter lie for the moment. Better that Varric think that slavery was the reason he was so nervous, at least for now. He didn't believe that Alexius _would_ capture him or give him to slavers, as the man had had very few slaves himself. And he'd always been kind to Ilensul. The magic he'd seen however... that was something that had Ilen's teeth on edge.

 

– ** – ** –

 

Redcliffe was positively crawling with Tevinters. Most tried to blend in with the rebel mages and the townsfolk that hadn't fled yet, but they were there. Even the best actors among them couldn't hide the inflection of certain words, or the rhythm of their voices that came from growing up in the north. It was a musicality of voice that Ilensul was particularly attuned to.

 

But there was plenty else to discover as well, as it turned out. Several merchants were happy to see them, especially when Ilensul promised to send the men of the Inquisition's quartermaster to visit them and peruse their goods. There were also a number of rebel mages eager to talk to Ilensul and Cassandra, more than one begging them to convince the Grand Enchanter to back out of this 'alliance'.

 

“Now or never then isn't it?” Ilensul paused outside _The Gull and Lantern,_ the tavern looking more intimidating to him than it probably should have. Looking over his shoulder, the elf was rather startled at the five pairs of eyes (or perhaps more accurately four and a half _pairs_ ) that were staring at him so calmly and expectantly. As if he knew what he was doing. As if he was leading. The sight was perhaps more unnerving than going in that building.

 

Swallowing hard, Ilen took a deep breath, but turned right again and pushed the tavern door open.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next -- Alexius and meeting Dorian!


	12. Greetings from Tevinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face meets Ilensul in Redcliffe.

_'Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.'_

 

Ilensul re-read the little note that had been slipped into his pocket. And then read it again. And again. There was no mistaking the handwriting, that was for sure. It wasn't Felix's, Ilen knew that, despite the fact that it was definitely Felix who'd sneaked the note to him. Ilen knew completely who wrote it. The elegant curves and swirls of the calligraphy were too familiar to be anyone else.

 

Cassandra stepped up beside Ilen, looking at the note over his shoulder, “You're absolutely sure you want to follow the instruction? It's likely a trap.” All of his companions seemed to nod along, ill-at-ease with the situation.

 

The meeting in the _Gull and Lantern_ hadn't gone as expected. First there was the shock of the Grand Enchanter, who seemed to have no recollection of meeting Ilen in Val Royeaux at all, much less inviting him and his party to Redcliffe. And then there had been Alexius and Felix's arrival. Felix had at least been warm, giving Ilensul a quick embrace, while Alexius had simply reached out to give a pat on the shoulder. While Varric had been warned that the elf had known the Magister before hand, it was clear that even he was as shocked as the rest of the group with the Tevinters' familiarity with their Herald.

 

Despite the kindness of greeting however, Alexius was not quite the man that Ilensul knew. The strain in his voice was evident immediately, as was the strange, round-about way of speaking. Alexius was a scholar, but previously a straight-forward one. His cryptic remarks and the strange, false cheer he spoke with chilled Ilensul in a way he wasn't used to. And it was something that Felix obviously recognized as well. Before much could get done at all, the younger man wobbled and nearly fell, saved by Warden Blackwall's quick reflexes.

 

And like a splash of cold water, the atmosphere had changed, as Alexius had bustled Felix, Fiona, and the rest of his entourage out of the tavern, leaving the Inquisition's party wide-eyed and more than a little flabbergasted.

 

Now that they stood outside in the sun, pointed in the direction of the town's Chantry, Cassandra had to speak up, “You knew them both didn't you? Before...” She looked down to him, trying to catch his gaze, slender brows furrowed.

 

Ilen nodded softly, long ears twitching in his agitation, “Yes. Magister Alexius was good friends with my master. They were both incredibly intelligent men, always in the pursuit of knowledge. He was always kind to me, when I saw him... which was often. But today...” he shook his head slowly, “He's different. He's _been_ different for some time. For the past... few years really. But this is... well, it's even more so now. And I can't say that I can place just _how._ ”  
  
He knew what had brought around the first change in the Magister, nigh on three years previous. Ilen's mind's eye could recall almost exactly when he discovered that Felix was ill. And when Alexius railed against Master Paulus, when told that the man couldn't find any cure. That there was no cure. He remembered the only time that Alexius had ever lashed at himself, when the elven spirit healer couldn't heal away the Blight that was slowly killing the the young man.

 

“You are quite sure you want to follow this note?” The Seeker drew a little closer as she repeated her earlier question, “If the Magister is not who you knew before, you could well be in even more danger than we thought. The note still stinks of trap to me.” The woman was nothing if not completely honest at least.

 

Ilen could only nod, sighing softly, “Yes. I'm sure. I need to... I need to make certain of it,” pausing to glance up at the Seeker, he risked a small half-smile, “Besides, if there is someone there laying in wait to attack, better they attack our group than some random townsfolk going to the Chantry for prayers and services.” That, at least, seemed to have everyone in agreement. The six of them had a far better chance of defending themselves than some hapless civilian.

 

It took only a few minutes to walk the short distance to the Chantry, the stone building still rather intimidating to the little Dalish elf, despite the fact that the building was markedly smaller than the Chantry in Haven. Or was it perhaps that he just _knew_ who would be on the other side of those oaken doors? Either way, this was no time to lollygag. Gritting his teeth in determination, he nodded one more time, and reached out to push the Chantry doors open.

 

– ** – ** –

 

“ _Good! You're finally here! Now help me close this thing would you?”_ Ilen knew that Dorian hadn't actually seen him. He'd seen Cassandra, with her breastplate emblazoned with the Inquisition's symbol, and the crowd of others that surrounded both her and him. If he had seen, the elf was rather certain he'd have had choice things to say first, regardless of the rift that was open right before him. But the man hadn't had time to do much more than glance over his shoulder before the rift had churned, and more demons had come out.

 

The next few minutes went in a blur, as the group neatly disposed of the wraiths and terror fiends that had crawled out of the veil rip. But finally it was sealed, globs of demonic ichor plopping to the ground in a gelatinous heap. And Dorian of course knelt right beside it, his grey eyes lit up in curiosity, hardly even paying attention to the others now that the danger had passed.

 

“Fascinating,” His rich, accented voice was almost a caress, and involuntarily Ilen shivered and drew up his shoulders, stepping closer in hopes of drawing Dorian's attention. “How does that work exact-” The Tevinter's probing question cut off as he took in just who it was that he was speaking to, who had walked in. Those stormy eyes widened, pupils dilating automatically as his full lips hung agape in shock.

 

After several long seconds however, everything seemed to catch up. Dorian's eyebrows lowered, then furrowed, and he stormed forward, his handsome face a thundercloud. The group behind Ilensul almost physically jumped, hands going to weapons instinctively, stayed only by a flashing gesture from their Herald as he stepped  _closer_ to the charging Vint.

 

And suddenly Ilen was wrapped up in an almost bone-crushing embrace. The larger man's arms wrapped around him completely, lifting him from the ground, the human's head bent so that he could bury his face in the gentle bend where the elf's neck met his shoulder. Dorian's words came in rapid Tevene, uncaring who heard, his attention focused solely on the elf that he kept firmly in his arms.

 

Behind him, Ilen could hear the others, murmuring questions to each other, until the deep voice of Bull began to translate Dorian's for Solas, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Varric. Of course the Qunari would know Tevene.

 

“ _He's shocked. Thought the Boss was dead. Something about going to someone's house... Paulus. Finding him gone. Being worried sick, and then hearing about the conclave,”_ Bull paused to listen more, the others shifting uncomfortably as Dorian set Ilen back down to his feet, but didn't move away. Indeed, the mage's arms moved, but to bring his hands up. They cupped Ilen's face from either side, leaning him forward so that several rather fervent kisses could be pressed to his forehead. Though they were several feet away, it was clear to Ilen's keen hearing that Bull's was just as sharp. He picked up Dorian's murmurs, _“Huh, he's calling Boss 'Aureus'. He's fine.”_ At least there was Bull's vote of confidence. Varric however seemed suspicious, “And what's that mean?”

 

Dorian pulled back just a little, still clutching Ilensul's face gently, his grey eyes focused down on the elf's pretty face, lips curved into a great smile, but he lifted his voice, and answered in Trade, “It means 'Golden one', my good dwarf. It's an endearment, given only to very, very, good friends.” Varric sputtered a little, giving a forced cough in an effort to cover it up.

 

Finally, the Tevinter released Ilen, giving him one last, long look before turning to his friend's companions, “I apologize for the... display, friends. You see, your Herald of Andraste is a very special person to me. I was just... rather shocked by his sudden reappearance after I'd gone and grieved for him.” He looked down for a moment, giving Ilensul a fond glance before turning back, “Forgive me, I'm getting ahead of myself I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathos. How do you do?” He bent to give a low bow with a small flourish, but he continued on, “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable, as I'm sure you can imagine.”

 

“So you're the one who sent that note then?” Blackwall spoke up, still shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Between still being rather new to the Inquisition, and the emotional display moments before, the man didn't know quite where to look.

 

“I am,” Dorian nodded slowly, adjusting his position so that he could put his arm around Ilen's slender shoulders, “I didn't know at the time that dear Ilensul was the 'Herald'; I'd only heard rumors here and there since I came to Ferelden. I only knew that the Herald was an elf. The offer was made regardless of the man's identity.” The man sighed, shaking his head, “You made it into Redcliffe, which means you've seen what's going on. You can see there's danger, even without the note.”

 

“Let's start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you,” Dorian continued, allowing his arm around Ilen to drop as his agitation slowly began to grow, “As if by magic, yes? Which is _exactly_ right. To reach Redcliffe _before_ the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.” The finality and surety with which the man spoke shook Ilen to his core. He remembered both Dorian and Alexius working on the theories, the research. But nothing had ever come from it. What had happened? What changed?

 

Finally, someone else spoke up, Solas interjecting into the conversation. Fitting of course, given that he too was a mage, “That is fascinating if true... and almost certainly dangerous.”

 

Dorian nodded slightly towards Solas, “The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon, there will be more like it. And they'll appear further and further away from Redcliffe.” The Tevinter's full lips tugged down in a frown, eyebrows slowly lowering into a furrow, “The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it's unraveling the world.” The weight of that final statement hung heavily in the thick air of the little Chantry, as each person looked to the others.

 

“I'm not sure we can move forward on theories...” It was finally the Seeker who voiced doubt. Perhaps in some hope that Dorian could be wrong, or misleading. It was certainly preferable to the man telling the truth.

 

“I know what I'm talking about,” Dorian protested, “I helped develop this magic. When I was still Alexius' apprentice, it was pure theory. He could never get it to work.”

 

Ilen finally spoke up, for seemingly the first time since they'd entered Redcliffe's Chantry, “That's true,” he explained, glancing over to his companions, always somewhat embarrassed to speak of his days in slavery, at least to the group as a whole, “My... late master worked with Magister Alexius rather often. He would have me deliver relevant books or texts, or he would send me over to scribe for the Magister, when he and Mas-- when he and Dorian were working more... feverishly.”

 

“What I don't understand,” the Tevinter went on, his fingers tapping on his chin in thought, “Is why he's doing it? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

 

The conversation was suddenly interrupted, by a soft voice calling from one of the Chantry's side doors, “He didn't do it for them,” Felix appeared, walking carefully closer to the group, stepping out of the shadows. Now without his father at his side, he more openly embraced Ilen. “I'm so relieved that you're alive. When we heard about the Conclave, and went to your home and realized Paulus had taken you with him...” he sighed and gave the elf a little squeeze before releasing him, “We feared the worst.” Felix's tired, shadowed eyes livened slightly at seeing Ilensul, alive and well, before they sobered again as he turned to the rest, “My father's joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the 'Venatori'.” The typically gentle young man was clear in his revulsion.

 

“And I can tell you one thing,” Felix continued, “Whatever he's done for them, he's done it to get to you. I don't know if he knew it was _you_ who was being called the 'Herald of Andraste', but the Venatori... they're obsessed with you. Maker knows why. Maybe because you survived the Conclave?”

 

Ilen frowned, glancing downward in thought, “Perhaps. I mean... what we do know is that this magic didn't work before the Breach. And now it does, at least somewhat. Probably because of it. Curious to figure out what let me survive, or maybe if I have the same power within me...”

 

“We know you're his target,” Dorian interrupted, “Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage.” Glancing about the dimly lit Chantry, the mage stepped closer, “I can't stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn't know I'm here, and I'd like to keep it that way for now.”

 

The elf nodded almost absently, “Of course, you'll come with us back to Haven. We'll need to give reports to the Commander, and to Leliana,” pausing to glance up to the darker skinned man, Ilen gave him a pointed look, “And you and I need to have a talk or two, I think.” 

 

Dorian nodded, “Quite right you are,  _Aureus_ ,” the Tevinter blatantly ignored the look given to him by Felix, and turned to the other man to clasp his shoulder, “Take care of yourself while I'm gone Felix. Try not to die, hm?”

 

The answering smile was sad, but understanding, “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.” And Felix clasped his friend's shoulder once quickly before he turned to hurry out of the side door that he'd entered through.

 

Clearing his throat, Dorian's now familiar smile warmed his lips again, “Well then. Haven is it? A rather charming name,  _Aureus_ ,” putting his arm back around Ilen's shoulders, the pair joined the rest of the group as they made their way out of the Chantry.

 

– ** – ** –

 

“So, the 'Herald of Andraste'. You've come a long way from being Paulus Pellidus' manservant,” Hours after leaving Redcliffe, and it was only now that Dorian finally got a chance to have a conversation with Ilensul alone. Sitting on the flat surface of a giant boulder at the edge of the party's camp, the pair sat with legs stretched out, leaning back on their palms. “I won't lie, I do mourn Paulus' death,” Dorian continued, keeping his almost sultry voice low, and his words in Tevene, lest the whole party overhear, “He was a brilliant man. But I am most pleased that you survived. Having to choose between the pair of you, I'd choose you every time.” The smile he gave the elf as he canted his dark head towards him was soft, small and private.

 

“I don't tell... them, but I mourn him too,” Ilen admitted quietly, his eyes focused on the stars overhead, “They wouldn't understand. Yes, he was my Master, and I was a slave. And ideally, I should have been free. But he was...” Ilen trailed off with a sigh, shaking his head before glancing over to Dorian, “I'm afraid you might not understand either... given everything. I don't know if you can understand what it's like for a slave. I was not raised in it, and I remember being free before but... for fifteen years, my entire world was my master, Caius, then Paulus. They were my everything. My all. And now...”

 

“Now not only do you have to relearn being a free man, but how to be a leader?” Dorian supplied, eyebrows raised in question.

 

“I suppose,” he agreed, “I was trained for leadership long ago, when I was a teenager. Or at least, I was learning. I was my clan's First after all. I was intended to take over the role of Keeper, when she grew too old or passed to the Beyond.” All this had been explained to Dorian years before of course, during one of many, many conversations the pair had had, but a reminder of the information didn't do anyone harm. “But I was supposed to have another fifteen or twenty years of training in it before actually taking on the role. And a Dalish clan is not nearly so big and important and dangerous as the Inquisition. I feel... woefully ill-equipped.”

 

“I don't suppose anyone would really be prepared for this kind of undertaking,” Dorian replied, his soft smile widening slightly, “Except perhaps that Seeker of yours. Now _that's_ a lady who could put the fear of the Maker in anyone.” Ilen couldn't help but giggle at that, which turned Dorian's smile into a grin, “There we are then. I was wondering when the real you would make an appearance.” Leaning over, he nudged the elf's shoulder with his own. “You seem more natural in this state than that one of perpetual doom and gloom you had back there.” 

 

Ilen sighed and nodded, his giggles fading, and the residual smile slowly relaxing away, “I know. There just... hasn't been much to smile about.”

 

“I'm sure there hasn't been. Looks like I got here just in the nick of time, hm?”

 

His smile returned, growing a bit broader as he scooted closer to the taller man, leaning over to press his shoulder against Dorian's arm, until it reached around to draw him close into the Tevinter's side. “I'm glad you're here, Dorian.”

 

“So am I, _Aureus_. So am I.”

 


	13. Reconciling Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilensul has to deal with the fact that he won't be able to please everyone.

“What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight?” Cullen was furious, his voice having risen to a yell when he learned of the alliance Ilensul had offered the mages in Redcliffe. After all that Ilen had gone through at the hands of a mage – one that he knew and had previously trusted at that! He'd seen the end of the world as they knew it, all that death and ruin, all caused by a mage. And yet he allowed them to run loose and wild? The former templar's instinctive distrust of magic, and the fear of what might have happened to Ilensul made his heart tremble, and his temper flare almost violently.

 

“This isn't a matter of debate! There will be abominations among the mages! We must be prepared!” He insisted, teeth gritting as he failed to bite back a snarl. In his agitation, it was hard for him to even recognize the expression on the small elf's face. It was hard to fight against the disbelief, the anger as he took in the hurt from his words and the underlying fear that was so clear in those beautiful dark eyes. Cullen had been trying, Maker knew he had been, to reconcile his history, and what he knew to be true. To curb his gut reaction with logical and temperance.

 

“I just thought...” Ilen finally found his voice, small and timid as it might be in the face of an incensed templar, “I know that people work harder, work better, when they feel that they're valued. It would be hard for them to feel valued if they were forced here at the point of a sword.” The weight of the elf's words, paired with his dark eyes grown huge and haunting, had both Cullen's voice and pulse stuttering. His temper flared briefly and defensively as he came to the realization that he was being an ass.

 

The only thing that kept him from going on with his rant was perhaps Cassandra, who stepped forward to stand beside the Herald, “We tasked the Herald with gaining the cooperation of the mages, as well as dispatching with the Magister, and he has done so,” The Seeker defended Ilensul's decision vigorously, “He was forced to make a decision, and he made one, while we sat around arguing among ourselves. What matters now is that we have the means to seal the Breach.”

 

“The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was beginning to enjoy the circular arguments!” Dorian's falsely cheery voice interrupted, as he moved from his place leaning against a support pillar to the others, easily enlarging the circle of bodies, and placing himself firmly at Ilen's side, standing with one foot slightly ahead of the other, ready it seemed to place himself between the elf and the other humans that surrounded him. The Tevinter's presence so close to Ilensul grated on Cullen's nerves, lighting green little fires of jealousy behind his amber eyes as he glared.

 

“We'll need to prepare the mages,” the mage went on, “They're all former prisoners of your Southern Circles, they'll need some training up.”

 

“Few of those brought are unHarrowed, Lord Pavus,” Josephine tried to assure hastily, in an effort to cut off Cullen before he even started on _that_. She'd taken the names of all those who'd come to Haven already – a standing offer to send out letters to friends and family was good incentive for giving their identities, after all, “Most have had at least ten years of training--”

 

“ _Southern_ training,” Dorian interrupted, his nose wrinkling in obvious distaste, his opinion of the South, Ferelden in particular, abundantly clear. “Where they've been taught to fear not only what they can do, but the very core of who they are. Even seasoned mages here have little more control than a mediocre Tevinter mage-child. They're messy, and wasteful with their magic. Fearful of what few spells they know.” He waved his hand dismissively, “Even the most talented among them, such as Madame de Fer, are more comparable to gangly youths than full-fledged mages.” A jerk of the Tevinter's chin brought his annoyingly perfect profile to view, making him seem just as haughty as he sounded. “They will need a bit of time if we want them to be of any real help – that is to pour magic into the Herald's Mark without causing collateral damage to the surrounding area, or worse, overloading and hurting him.”

 

“You're... staying?” Cassandra queried with some obvious shock, and even Leliana seemed a little curious, perking up from beneath her hood. Dorian had done what he'd claimed to have set out to do, and stopped Magister Alexius from ruining things with his time magic. All four advisers had rather expected, and indeed hoped in Cullen's case, that the man would soon be taking his leave. He made them ill-at-ease, being a 'Vint', and his casual use and attitude about his admittedly formidable power made both the Commander and the Seeker discomfited.

 

“Of course I am!” Turning to look down at Ilensul, he gave a private smile that seemed to light the little elf's face up, much to Cullen's chagrin, “The South is so charming and rustic! I adore it to little pieces!” Flippant and jesting he was for another moment, before his expression sobered, and his grey eyes darkened, “And if you think I'm leaving one of my dearest friends all alone _here_ of all places, you've gone mad.”

 

“Whatd'ja mean _'here of all places'_?” The Ferelden in Cullen's voice could be plainly heard this time, no longer softened from his time under Orlesian templar tutors or his near decade in the Free Marches. The former templar's face had darkened with his offense and anger, gauntleted hands flexing at his sides before curling into a fists. He'd held his tongue before, even in the War Room when the Vint had slammed open the door and interrupted a private meeting before the confrontation at Redcliffe. But now he'd gone too far.

 

But Dorian only scoffed, waving a hand at the group at large, “What do you think I mean? Do you honestly think I'd leave a friend alone here in the south? Surrounded by religious zealots, superstitious and ignorant barbarians, and _templars_? Someplace when you're just as likely to put him to the brand once he's sealed the Breach and 'lived out his usefulness'?” He shook his dark head emphatically, dusky cheeks tinged pink in his fury, “No. Absolutely not. I will stay on until Ilensul is relieved of his duty here... and ensure that he isn't punished for saving the world.”

 

“ _THE BRAND?!_ ” Cullen sputtered and raged, “How dare you insinuate--”

 

“I was living among those rebel mages for weeks, I'll have you know,” The Tevinter cut in, not bothering to let the man go on, “Mages from all over the south were gathered in that little town. Ferelden, Orlais, Nevarra... _Kirkwall_.” His silvery eyes narrowed into slits as he stepped forward, now firmly placing himself between Cullen and Ilensul, “I've heard all about you, _Knight-Captain,”_ despite his own fury, Cullen couldn't help but flinch at the sound of the title.

 

Dorian however wasn't done, and continued relentlessly, “Mages aren't people, remember? Isn't that what you told the Champion of Kirkwall, bold as brass? Oh yes, I know about you,” The mage was practically spitting by this point, his angry flush deepening, “I'll remind you that your blessed 'Herald of Andraste' is a mage. And I've heard, and seen, what you people do to mages,” Dorian's smooth, cultured voice had grown dark and spiteful with each passing moment, enough to make the three women among them to glance at each other nervously. “So forgive me then, when I decline leaving one of my closest friends to southerners' 'tender mercies'.”

 

Only then did the Herald finally bring himself to intervene. Before Cullen could step forward, and undoubtedly do or say something he would regret, Ilensul's hand reached out and gently grasped Dorian's wrist, giving him a little tug backward. “That is enough, _Lethallin_. What's done is done,” the elf paused, and those large brown eyes that Cullen so wished would look at him were turned to that damnable Tevinter, wide and entreating. “We know what we need to do now... let's get some rest. It's... it's been a long day.”

 

It was the little elf's pleading, rather than Cullen's glowering and threatening glares that convinced the mage, Dorian made that quite clear with the look he gave the Commander. But he nodded, and allowed Ilen to lead him away from the Chantry, leaving the advisers and Cassandra alone, at least for now.

 

– ** – ** –

 

“That was him? _THAT_ is the man you've been pining after?” Dorian seemed incredulous, spinning around to face Ilen as soon as his cabin door was closed and they were granted some privacy. With a flick of the Tevinter's wrist, the small iron stove was lit and crackling merrily, filling the small building with warmth, and the scant candles in the single room cabin were lit. “That... that... _bigot_? Oh, _Aureus..._ do you really think that little of yourself?”

 

Ilensul frowned, letting loose a sigh as he shuffled over to the table and chairs his little cabin afforded. Sitting down heavily, his feathered shoulders lifted and dropped in an almost listless shrug, “He's... he's not like that, not most of the time. He's just scared,” excuses, perhaps, but Ilen felt compelled to defend Cullen, at least a little, “Besides, it doesn't matter how I feel about him. He's not interested.”

 

Dorian snorted, giving his chin a jerk, “And why ever not, hm? You're kind – far kinder than is healthy you know – and intelligent. You've compassion enough for ten men, you're an exceptional healer, you've even been known to crack a joke or two,” the man smiled rather teasingly as he listed off Ilen's virtues, “You're braver than most, I can tell you that. The fact that you've remained here despite the danger, even though you aren't chained or collared here says much about your character. And most importantly!” He held up one finger with a grin, “You've the prettiest face this side of Thedas!”

 

Ilen chuckled quietly at Dorian's enthusiasm, tilting his head with a quirk of one dark brow, “Second prettiest Dorian... you're here now after all,” he pointed out.

 

“Well of course,” Dorian 'admitted', giving his friend a mock-scowl, “I was trying to be nice you know!” Settling his hands on his hips, the Tevinter softened his gaze as he continued to regard Ilen, “So why then do you say he's not interested? Or is he only interested in the... 'softer' sex?”

 

The elf shook his head slowly, “I asked. When I... admitted that I liked him, and he rejected me, I asked if it was because I was a man, but he said that wasn't the issue. I assume then the issue is that I'm a mage or just... my particular charms hold no sway over him is all.”

 

Dorian snorted again, as haughtily as he could manage, “Your charms are nigh perfection my dear. I would bet a sovereign that it is your 'magical status' that gives him pause. To judge by his reaction in the Chantry in any case.” Pausing, the man stepped closer to Ilen, bending his knees to squat before him and take the elf's smaller hands in his. “ _Aureus_ , darling, surely you know that you holding a candle for that... buffoon will do you no good. If he can't see the good in you, how worthy you are of his affections, and will let something like that, the fact that you were born a mage, keep him from seeing how wonderful you are... he doesn't deserve you. Neither you nor your devotion.”

 

The wide brown eyes that met the Tevinter's were so vulnerable and tender, it made the man's heart ache. Reaching for him, Dorian pulled Ilen closer, sliding him off of his chair and into his arm, balancing the elf somewhat precariously on his knee as he gathered his friend into a tight embrace.

 

“I'm just... I'm never good enough, it seems. For anyone.” Ilen's soft voice was muffled against Dorian's shoulder as he buried his face against the collar of the man's robes, his fingers twisting themselves in the fabric of his clothes.

 

“A feeling I fully empathize with my friend, I assure you,” Dorian soothed, keeping his own tone as soft and smooth as he could manage. “But you are, very much, good enough, _Aureus_. Anyone who doesn't see that is nothing but a fool.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

Cullen groaned as he dropped into his bed, flopping straight onto his back, gloved hands rubbing his face roughly. That was... that was a disaster. He hadn't been able to control himself seeing that Tevinter so close to Ilensul, he hadn't been able to make his argument civilly, and worst of all, he'd clearly frightened the one person in all Thedas he'd hoped would never fear him.

 

He'd been planning and scripting out his 'side' as soon as he'd gotten word as to Ilen's decision about the mages, and yet when it had come to actually delivering, what had he done? He'd let his fear take control and hadn't just pushed his opinion onto the others, but _shoved_ it down their throats.

 

With a grunt, the Inquisition's Commander pulled himself up to sit, and began slowly stripping away his armor, frowning as he replayed the confrontation in his head again. The timidity, the outright fear on Ilen's face and in his eyes was now perfectly clear in hindsight, even if the expressions had been just barely noticed in the moment. Cullen's expression became pained and pinched as he recalled the elf nudging closer to Dorian, almost hiding behind him for part of the argument. Holding on desperately to his courage to not wilt completely.

 

The sight of a mage cowering before him was, sadly, a familiar sight to Cullen. The reminder that he'd caused the same reaction in Ilen, someone so soft, and gentle... the guilt and shame of it twisted in his gut.

 

There had to be a way he could make it up to him. Someway to apologize, to show Ilen that he really didn't mean to hurt him, or insult him. That he hadn't intended to frighten him. That he still wanted to be the elf's friend.

 

Perking up in sudden thought, Cullen hardly remembered to throw his cloak over his shoulders as he nearly ran to Threnn and her place at the commissary. He had just the thing.

 

It was just unfortunate that the Commander didn't get to see the shocked smile or pretty blush that rose to Ilensul's cheeks when he opened the package delivered to his cabin a few days later. Cullen didn't get to witness the awe as the overly generous 'care package' he'd put together was gone through. Any single item would have been enough to show Ilen that he was sorry, but unable to keep himself entirely from doting, Cullen had spent quite a bit of his rarely used salary to spoil.

 

The man had chosen each item carefully, hoping that it would be enough to show that he knew Ilen, and cared about who he was and what he liked. There was soap scented with sandalwood, three pairs of soft woolen gloves, a lovely bronze cloak-pin, cut into the shape of the Inquisition's symbol, a dozen hair ribbons of various colors, and of course, a box of candied dates to satisfy the little Herald's well-known sweet tooth.

 

Perhaps it was just as well – it was doubtful that Cullen would have known what to do about Ilen's shy blush and happy tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back after being out of town! Hope to get back to normal posting schedule! Thanks for reading!


	14. After Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay! Between a frenzy at work, writer's block, and getting a crappy cold, I was way slow with this chapter! I'm not ENTIRELY pleased with it, so it may end up edited in the future, but here it is! Thanks for your patience! And thank you for the kudos! Kudos and comments always make my day, and make writing a little easier!

In the biting cold, Cullen could almost stop thinking. Rubbing his gloved hands tightly against his eyes, the Inquisition's Commander leaned forward, his elbows pressing on his knees. This had to be a dream, a nightmare. Maker please, let it be a nightmare.

He knew that it had been too good to be true. The previous two weeks had gone... rather splendidly. Ilensul had accepted his apology, blushing beautifully when he'd finally worked up the nerve to thank Cullen personally for the 'care package' that he'd sent. The flush of color and shy little smile that had graced Ilen's pretty face had been worth the dent in Cullen's coin-purse, he was completely certain. He might not have accepted any of the little elf's advances, but he treasured Ilen all the same. And what made the Herald happy made the Commander happy.

The following fortnight had passed quickly. Ilen had taken the rebel mages under his wing, and spent almost the entirety of those weeks teaching them control. While the little elf wasn't as experienced in battle tactics and offensive magic like Madame Vivienne or Dorian were, he still was well versed in magical control and accuracy. And he'd proven to be a natural teacher; Ilen was calm and patient, generous with praise, and constructive but kind in his criticisms. 

Under the tutelage of all four of the Inquisition's 'top mages', the rebels had begun to learn about their own power, and the finesse necessary to wield it. It would take a lot longer than a mere two weeks to really train them up, but a couple of weeks was all that was necessary to get them to do what was required in the first place – to learn how to pour their power through that mark on Ilen's hand, so that he could close the Breach. More lessons could come later, the Breach had to remain the top priority.

And so a mere half-month after their alliance with the rebel mages, the Inquisition marched yet again on the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. Mages, templars, soldiers, the entirety of the 'inner circle' had gone, bolstering their Herald, and lending him their power, through both the mark on his hand, and the steel of their swords, felling the demons that wandered those ruins.

The actual closure had gone seamlessly. Ilensul had staggered, falling to his knees with a cry, but he'd survived, and been only slightly dazed for a few minutes. But he had been successful; he'd sealed the Breach, leaving behind only a few swirling greenish clouds, and a faint green scar upon the sky. The soldiers and mages with him, and the townsfolk in Haven had been jubilant. And why not? The first goal of the Inquisition had been achieved – through hard work even the common man saw. Through helping the people, gathering the resources, allying themselves with others, they were able to make something significant happen. Why wouldn't they celebrate?

Being able to rejoice in their victory had just been too much to ask for, it seemed. Cullen shuddered and hunched in on himself even more as the memory, still so fresh and raw, came over him again. Ilen's small, round shoulders straightening and pulling back. His chin lifting as he ordered Cullen to take the people and leave through Chancellor Roderick's remembered path. Commanding that the others of the inner circle go with them. 'If any of these red templars make it out of this, the townspeople will need the protection. Get them out of here!'

The Tevinter had tried to reason with Ilensul, to convince him to at least bring himself and the Iron Bull along, to make sure he was able to get to the remaining trebuchet. But Ilen had shoved off his friend's hands. 'No, you go! All of you! I know you all love to treat me like a damsel, but I assure you, I'm well capable of defending myself!' Electricity had crackled around the elf's hands as he made great sweeping motions to them. 'Now go!'

They'd done as he bade. While Ilen was not the 'technical' leader of the Inquisition, Cullen realized that all of them had treated him like it. They'd always asked his opinions on matters, expected him to make the tough decisions (not to mention dealing with the consequences of those decisions). The people certainly had thought of him as their leader. And now....

Cullen drew in a shaky breath, eyes shutting tightly. 'And now he's gone...' A part of him thought it was better then, that he hadn't let things go further than they had. Hadn't he? He'd not allowed Ilensul, or himself, to dream of fanciful, romantic notions – for many reasons yes, but certainly this very instance was one of them. The nature of what they were fighting, it had been entirely likely that one or both of them would die in the process. He'd only hoped, had wished it had been him instead.

His dark and melancholy thoughts were interrupted at last, as the heavy weight of a blanket dropped over his shoulders, and a wooden bowl of stew was shoved towards his hands, the hot meal pouring steam into the bitter winter air.

“Eat. Then warm up and get some rest. You'll be needed soon enough.” The cultured, lilting tones of the Tevinter, Dorian, broke through the morose haze that had surrounded the Commander. But the man didn't go far from Cullen, and hunkered down on the log he was occupying to sit next to him, no doubt guessing that if he left Cullen to his own devices, he wouldn't do 'as ordered', no matter how sound the advice.

“Why?” Cullen finally managed, his voice somewhat cracked and hoarse. Just how long had he been sitting there in silence?

“Why what?” Dorian quirked a sculpted brow at Cullen before he gestured towards the bowl that the Commander still held, indicating that he should eat the simple stew of turnips, potatoes, and salted meat. Only once the man brought a spoonful of the warm food to his mouth did Dorian finally continue, “I'll assume the rest of that sentence was 'Why are you looking out for me?', to which the answer is quite simple: I'm something of a marvel.” The Tevinter's strong chin lifted a little, but the expression overall lacked the confidence and swagger he normally adopted.

With a sigh, Dorian went on, “Firstly, because you're the Inquisition's Commander, and you will be needed soon enough. Freezing, starving, and exhausting yourself in some strange self-flagellation is all well and good, but at the moment others need you, so it's important you don't get to martyr yourself quite yet,” Cullen opened his mouth to retort, but was given only a pointed finger in his face, “Eat.” The mage straightened the collar of his cloak, “But further than your importance to the Inquisition was the concern another had for you. For whatever reason, regardless of how I personally feel on the matter, one of my dearest friends cared for you. It would be an insult to him if I were to let you starve or freeze simply because the pair of us don't get on.”

That at least brought Cullen's resistance to a halt, and without further argument, he took another bite of the simple stew. Perhaps it shouldn't have, but knowing now, for certain, that Ilensul cared for him brought a new swell of warmth and emotion in his chest, even if he was... gone. The things he'd wanted to say, had wanted to do... the chances of those happening gone entirely. He'd waited too long. He'd wanted to hold off, to wait until the Breach had been sealed, to have some peace and then, possibly, looking towards more. Someday. But the chance had slipped through his fingers, like so many others had in the past. And as much as he wanted to forget, he wanted to think of something, someone else, Cullen knew that he couldn't. Perhaps then, it was better to talk about him. Or hear about him, no matter how hard it was or how much it hurt.

Dorian was perhaps the best person to ask... both of them said they'd known each other for quite a while. Certainly the mage had known Ilen longer than anyone else in the Inquisition. After another spoonful of food, Cullen finally turned his head to glance at Dorian again, “I... if you don't mind...” The Commander stuttered a little, nervous to ask, but he needed a voice now and he... wanted to know. “The Herald said he'd known you for years... but he was... quiet about his own history otherwise. I was just wondering if you would tell me more about him, and how you met him. I should have liked to understand him more.”

The mage's eyebrows both rose this time, and his chin tilted as he canted his head towards the warrior, “Talk about Ilen?” His gray eyes softened and a sigh escaped the Tevinter's lips as he turned to look at the fire nearby, “I suppose I should ask what you know of him then. No point in repeating known facts...” Stalling perhaps, but Dorian did have a point. What use was there in going over common knowledge?

“Not much, I'm afraid. I... I knew what sort of man he was; kind, and thoughtful, and generous. I know he was born to and raised in a Dalish clan in the Free Marches, and that he was enslaved in Tevinter,” Cullen at least attempted to keep his tone neutral on that bit, but it was difficult to say the least, “But otherwise... not much else.”

Dorian had the good grace to allow Cullen's shifting tone slide for the moment, and simply nodded, “Well that's the general idea of most of it. I'm not quite sure now is the best time to ruminate on just what he went through, at least for half his time there.” Dorian had never defended the cruelty found in his homeland, when such discussions had come up after all. While he never denounced slavery as such, he did speak against those who mistreated their servants, be they slave or free.

“It wasn't all bad. The master he served last, the one he accompanied to the Conclave, was stern, but not a cruel man. Senior Enchanter Paulus Pellidus – a scholar who gave up his seat in the Magisterium in favor of academic pursuits. It was through Paulus that I – along with Felix and Magister Alexius – met Ilen. The man was a genius when it came to magical theory, so we three called on him often enough for advice, use of books, and so on. Along with begging to borrow Ilen himself of course.”

The mage held up his hand to cut off what would undoubtedly be a protest that had already begun to bubble in Cullen's throat, “Not like that. Ilen was a good scribe – his penmanship was impeccable, he spoke several languages thanks to being in Paulus' care, and he was a talented mage. If Ilen had been Paulus' apprentice, not his slave, we would have begged for his time just as readily.”

The reassurance did at least take the tension from the Commander's shoulders, and he sighed, “It would have been better if he'd never been a slave at all, no matter how 'kind' his master.”

And to Cullen's surprise, Dorian nodded, “I agree. Though that would deprive me of one of the very few friends in my life, and undoubtedly deprived the Inquisition of their Herald, given that he would not probably not been at the Conclave. But for him, it would have been much better. He would have been with his people, with his family, free to pursue whatever it is that he would have wanted.” Dorian's sigh mimicked Cullen's earlier one as he drew his eyes away from the fire, “It feels unreal now. That he could be.. gone again. Even during times where it was weeks or months since I'd seen him, I knew he was there. And then when we'd heard about the Conclave.” 

Dorian closed his eyes momentarily, gathering his thoughts for a moment to maintain his composure, “We knew he'd gone there with Paulus. And so when we'd heard everyone had died, I...” Storm grey eyes opened again, shiny with unshed tears, “I'd grieved, knowing my friend was dead. A bright, beautiful life, just... gone. And then suddenly he wasn't. He had somehow, miraculously, survived a blast that nigh leveled a mountain. Walked physically in the Fade. He was free from slavery, and he was alive. A miracle, really. When I saw it was him in that Chantry in Redcliffe, I was so happy. For the first time in a long time. And now he is gone again.”

“And you wonder if you have the strength to go through it again?” Cullen finished for him.

Dorian could only nod solemnly, “Yes. I've had precious few people in my life that... thought me of any worth. Who actually cared. And he did. He cared about... so many. It's hard to imagine the world being worth it without such warmth. I keep praying. Hoping. I mean...” The mage's cloaked shoulders lifted and fell in a half-shrug, “He's performed miracles of survival before. Maybe he could again.”

“A lovely thought,” the warrior had to agree with that, “If a little–“ He was unable to finish the sentence however, saved from the sob that threatened to break through his walls by the sound of Cassandra's voice cutting through the makeshift camp.

“There! It's him! He's alive!”


End file.
